Little Thief
by wolfdragonful
Summary: Alternate Reality where Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all knew d'Artagnan under slightly different circumstances. Instead of meeting him after his father's death, Athos knows him from when he was a toddler and Porthos and Aramis meet him four years before the massacre at Savoy. (There may be slight spoilers for episodes)
1. First Meeting: Athos

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 19**

**d'Artagnan: 2**

* * *

At nineteen, Athos knew his lot in life. He had had the luck of being born to a well-off family, had the love and trust of the people he would preside over, and had no difficulties with his studies. He had a brother, whom he loved deeply, and his family had their health. There was little question as to what he would become when he came of age. He knew his lot, how lucky he was to have it, and he reveled in it.

By reveling, he meant going to places no one knew his name and acting as if he too were of the commonwealth. His brother laughed at him while his father feared robbery or attack. Athos found the activity to be a grounding experience. He had once thought the commonwealth to be pitied until he had been left in a situation requiring anonymity. He'd met an old farmer who had been kind enough to guide him to the correct road and even to lend a bit of money. Until he had returned home, he'd pretended to be a person of no consequence. It kept him safe as well as availed him to unexpected revelations on a variety of subjects; himself mainly.

Besides, Gascony was supposed to be beautiful in spring, with the farms producing and the people giddy in the sunlight as gossip passed their lips by. He had to repay that farmer for his kindness as well. He couldn't let another year pass without giving the man back some reward. He smiled at the memory of the old man raving about his wife who, at the time, had been pregnant. Athos had already promised himself to over exaggerate how much help the child's father had been to both the wife and child.

As he and his horse climbed over the final crest of hill that overlooked the wide open land of Gascony, Athos wondered what sort of woman the farmer's wife was as well as what sort of child they had brought to the world. He hoped both would be, at least, as considerate of others as the farmer.

The man had struck Athos as rather wise in his own way. The way others had greeted him as he'd guided Athos had shown he was well respected as well as, possibly, influential to those around him. The respect had been earned as well, from what Athos had seen. After the display, he had set about making himself to be more like the farmer which had led to the trust he currently held.

A refreshing feeling.

As expected, the village Lupiac in Gascony was a true vision of a peaceful countryside village. Rolling farmland was dotted sparsely by quaint homes with people meandering about the roads, baskets in hand. Athos pressed his heels to his horse, urging it to a trot down the winding road in to town. He knew where he was headed but it wouldn't hurt to have a quick bite of food from a shop in the tiny marketplace that clamored with the sounds of bargaining, dogs, and poultry that had wandered free of a pen.

He handed his horse to a smithy, giving the man a bit more coin than strictly necessary, and weaved his way through the gossiping crowds. The fruit he picked from a pallet was sweet and succulent on his tongue as he wandered about, eyeing the goods on display and the people around him. Everyone wore sturdy cloths and leathers but there were a few men carrying knives swords on their belts.

The blades looked uncared for as well; a mark of an unprotected township that held no fear in its heart. There was hardly anything here that would be seen as valuable enough to warrant the attentions of bandits. The people therefore had no need for armaments even if they did own them. Athos almost found himself wishing he'd been born to Lupiac of Gascony as he strolled through the market.

He was making his way back to the smithy to collect his horse so as to travel to his destination when a cart rumbled up. The black horses pulling the cart were field animals with massive chests and towering backs and heads. They were well trained for carting and Athos doubted they were incapable plow animals if they were owned by someone in Gascony. The creatures huffed and snorted as their driver reigned them to a halt, his familiar face worn from a life of work and modest living. Athos couldn't help but smile as the man spotted him from the cart seat.

"My god Boy!" the man cried out with a hearty laugh that bubbled from his belly. "Lost again?"

A few bystanders glanced their way for a moment before whispering at each other as they continued about their days. Athos tried to ignore the slight flush that heated his cheeks as a few women winked at him.

"Not this time, no," Athos grinned. "I'm visiting this time. I have yet to thank you properly for your help."

The old farmer snorted as he hopped from his seat, revealing a young boy with curious eyes shadowed by raven hair. Athos smiled at the boy, earning himself a shy wave in return.

"Truth be told," the old farmer grunted out as he fussed with the harnesses on the massive horses, "I'm surprised you remember me, Boy."

Athos shrugged, lips cocked towards his nose as if he were trying to kiss it. The comment had been expected. It was very likely that, if Athos had been anyone else, he would have forgotten old Alexandre d'Artagnan's kindness. However, he was himself and if he had any fault, it was that he forgot very little.

"I remember you were looking forward to a child," Athos stated with a cheeky grin. He eyed the boy who had stretched himself over the cart's seat, belly down and tiny feet kicking in the air. The child gave a weak squeak when their eyes connected, his hands covering his face as if that would make him disappear.

Old Alexandre smiled as Athos found himself chuckling. The child peered at the two of them from between his fingers.

"Aye," the old farmer chuckled as he wrestled the child into a sitting position and then into his arms. As soon as he was on his father's hip, the boy clutched his father's shirt with white knuckles and pressed his brow to the elder man's neck.

"Shy lad," Athos smiled with a soft gleam in his eyes that he only showed his brother.

"Scared of strangers still," the elder murmured, a hand patting the boy's back. "Introduce yourself, child."

The boy gave his father a nervous, darting eyes glance before facing Athos. The young man waited as the boy warred with his father in silence, until the child glanced back at him with a quizzical look.

"Hello," the child mumbled with a tentative wave of his hand. Athos gave the boy a grateful and reassuring smile. He was glad the boy had the courage to speak to him but knew the uncertainty that clung to the boy's restricted movements wouldn't be easy to rid him of.

"Hello," he replied with a small wave of his own, his fingers bending to his unmoving palm like they were on hinges. It was then he realized he'd not taken his signet ring off. If the old farmer noticed it, he remained silent.

"This is Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony," the new father beamed as he held the child close for a chaste kiss to a soft cheek.

"Well met," Athos grinned. He held out his hand for the little child. "I am Athos."


	2. Third Spring: Athos

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: Almost 21**

**d'Artagnan: 4**

* * *

Athos enjoyed spring's returning to France. His family had given up trying to tell him to avoid wandering far from home. He was about to become twenty-one and his wandering seemed to only bring wisdom they could praise him for gaining. Just last summer, Athos had come home and had had the smithy replace all the hinges and locks in the stables. He had pointed out worrisome aging of the latches and warned about the dangers to the children should a horse spook. He had remained quiet when his brother asked if he'd had such a thing occur on his wanderings though.

He didn't really share what he did during his spring wanderings past that he was avoiding anything scandalous. He didn't mention the almost four-year-old boy who greeted him with warm hugs that cradled Athos' very heart in soft presses of tiny arms. He especially remained silent on how enraged he'd been when he'd learned a horse had spooked over the winter and nearly trampled the child he'd grown oddly fond of in the last two years. Little d'Artagnan now had a crescent shaped scar on his back left by the shod horse as its hoof clipped his right side.

It was mid-spring during his current – third – visit when he noticed just how scared he'd been the year before. D'Artagnan had been stuck inside during most of Athos' last visit thanks to healing ribs and an understandable fear of anything with four legs that outweighed him. They had spent hours simply talking, Athos reading to him, and making guesses at what people in town were gossiping about. Now, he and d'Artagnan were under a tree behind the barn, the boy using Athos' leg as a pillow. His shirt had ridden up to reveal the pink, raised mark that arched from the child's spine and towards his right side. It was on his lower back and had Athos not known the cause, he may have been able to ignore it.

Instead, he stared at it and his trembling hand hovered over the scar. Athos had been acutely aware of how lucky d'Artagnan had been. Most of the horses in Lupiac were plow animals with platter-wide hooves that could crush a grown man's skull. Everyone in the village was aware of how lucky d'Artagnan had been, having gotten so few injuries. The smithy was apologetic as well despite the boy and his father's apparent forgiveness about the situation. The boy's actions indicated he was over it seeing as he was all smiles and childish sunshine again. Yet, Athos knew now that the smithy was blaming himself. As he managed to skim his fingertips over the scar that resembled half of a bite mark, he knew he blamed himself for not being there and for only yelling at the smithy until the elder d'Artagnan pulled him away.

Athos' hand flew away from the tiny body as the boy shifted into a sitting position, a hand rubbing his eyes languidly. The child yawned, arms reaching for the lower branches, his shirt rising a bit more until Athos yanked it down for him. D'Artagnan smiled at him with a blinding smile that was reserved for three people. Against the boy's olive skin and inky hair, the smile was even brighter.

"Can we go to the market now?" d'Artagnan asked. "Papa really needs those extra seeds and Mama wants cloth for new drapes."

Athos gave the boy a soft smile. It had become clear during his first visit that d'Artagnan's father and mother would house him willingly as long as he looked after their son and did a few chores about the place. He'd been relegated to almost everything child friendly when d'Artagnan had started clinging to him a following him about.

"Right," Athos chuckled as he dragged himself to his feet with a groan. While most of his time in Lupiac was spent making sure little d'Artagnan kept out of trouble, it wasn't unheard of for him to find himself doing other chores around the farm. Yesterday had been spent rebuilding the stalls for the horses. D'Artagnan had been off with other children under the hovering eyes of the mothers.

"You sound like Papa," d'Artagnan laughed.

"You will too," Athos jeered back as he poked d'Artagnan's shoulder with two fingers. "One day."

"Never!"

Athos roared with laughter as d'Artagnan pouted at him the way a puppy pouted for not getting treats. It was almost commonplace for d'Artagnan to be equated to a puppy since he'd taken to trailing Athos' heels during Athos' first visit to Lupiac. It had been a surprise to the boy's parents when it only took two days for him to warm up to Athos. Athos had been blamed of bribery through sweets which he'd denied vehemently to no avail. Especially not after he'd brought the boy a trinket this year.

As they wandered through the fabric shop, d'Artagnan played with the timepiece from his father about his neck as well as the trinket Athos had gifted him. While the timepiece was special by familial value, the trinket practically meant Athos viewed him as family. The silver fixing embossed with Athos' family crest as well as fitted with slivers of dark blue sapphire along the outer edge. It was an almost perfect companion to his signet ring that named him the next Count de le Fère.

The two medals hung on a long, thin chain and sat against d'Artagnan's chest, clinking as the child moved. The chain had come with the timepiece and showed its aging in an almost glaring manner. Athos feared it breaking, the trinkets being lost, and the resulting expression d'Artagnan would have. Yet, Athos comforted himself with the understanding that the chain had survived two generations. It would survive under d'Artagnan's careful handling.

The town had not changed much over the last two and a half years. The children had grown and the ones old enough to take up responsibilities were taking apprenticeships. A few teenagers were pairing off here and there, roped up in the tricky net of puppy love. The little market was still loud and men still wandered with swords on their belts. Athos even wore his though he was aware he had more training than many of the locals.

"Athos," d'Artagnan called up to him as he packed the cloth into a sack with as much care as he could manage. He had a hand on Athos' sheathed sword, brown eyes curious.

"Yes?"

"Papa thinks I should learn to handle a sword…"

Athos smiled, kneeling down to hold the boy's shoulders in his hands. "I'd be honored to teach you swordsmanship…If your mother has no objections."

"Mama agreed with Papa," the boy said as he shook his head emphatically, hair fanning out about his head.

"Then we'll start immediately."

The boy smiled his blinding smile once more.


	3. First Meeting: Porthos

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Porthos: 17**

**d'Artagnan: Almost 6**

* * *

Porthos was seventeen when he learned of true depravity. He, Flea, and Charon had been running the streets of Paris, collecting food, supplies, and money as they wandered. They spied on the younger members of the Court of Miracles to ensure safety, laughed over how uncomfortable expensive clothes seemed, and wistfully thought of the possibility of a life on those streets that didn't involve theft or trickery to survive.

About midday though, their collective musings were ended when one of the children came running up to them with a message from an elder of the Court. They were to find clean cloth and after they had nicked sheets from clotheslines, they rushed into the Court with confused expressions. The elder who had called upon them was a man who had almost become a priest until he'd found God's work in patching the members of the Court of Miracles back together was more satisfying. Everyone had nicknamed him 'Father' in jest of his tendencies to quote scripture when he thought no one was listening. He was the closest thing to a priest one would find in the Court and he wasn't the only one aware of that fact.

"Father," Charon called as he tripped into the old chamber with sheets bundled about his arms like he was trying to keep his hands warm in the late winter wind. The old man whirled, staring at them with wild, bleary eyes as he leaned over a small body on his cot.

"Wonderful," the Father cried. "Flea, hot water! Charon, rip those into strips! Porthos, I need your hands!"

As Flea disappeared and Charon collected the cloth they had collected, stripping it apart with a knife, Porthos rushed over to the priest. His hands were quickly wrapped about a small neck, streams of crimson bubbling past his fingers as he struggled to get a firm enough grip against pallid olive skin, belonging to a boy he had no recollection of within the Court.

"Keep it from bleeding," the elder commanded, an unforgiving and nearly accusing finger jabbing the air near Porthos' face. The young man nodded, ignoring the blood the finger left dotting his dark face. He focused on his hands, pressing against the wound whilst keeping them light enough to not do any further harm.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with the Father stitching the long, smooth cut that stretched from just below the boy's left ear to the center of his neck, arching downwards towards his chest, together before wrapping the child's neck with the cloth. It was tediously slow to Porthos who remained at the boy's head, hand wrapped over the wound as his mind whispered at him; it had nothing good to dwell on.

_He's so tiny_, Porthos had thought as he'd inched his fingers out of the Father's way, staring at the knobbed knuckles as they wove thread and needle through skin.

_He's as old as Charlotte_, he had noted as the Father and Flea wiped up the dried blood with soaked rags before more stitches were sewn through the mangled skin.

_What's he got in his hand_? Porthos wondered while he held the boy up, a hand at the back of the child's head as Charon helped wrap the cloth about the wound.

Darkness was falling over the city when they had finally finished, candles lit about the chamber to make watching the injured boy easier. Flea went off to get them all food while the Father disappeared mumbling about blankets. Charon was slumped on an old chair that had erupted with dust as he'd settled while Porthos had arranged himself so the boy's head was on his lap. He'd tossed his long coat over the child's fevered body, shifting the boy's fisted right hand so it lay on his chest.

"Wonder what he's clutching so desperately," Charon murmured.

Porthos nodded in silent agreement. He'd kept his eyes fixed on the child's right hand that was clenched in a fist throughout the procedure, wondering at the drying mud coating small fingers while the left hand that was covered in blood had lain limp. Porthos folded his own hand over the tiny fist, his thumb brushing over the boy's almost bronze skin without his conscious command.

"Maybe something from his attacker?" Porthos reasoned in an unusually soft tone. He swept raven colored bangs from a sweaty brow with the tips of his fingers. "Something from his family possibly," he added with a shrug.

"If he's got any you mean."

"Charon," Flea scolded from the doorway, a tray with three steaming bowls on it in her hands. Her face was storming as she glared at Charon.

"I meant nothing by it," Charon mumbled, his body slouching further into the chair. She gave a huff as she passed him, lowering the tray so Porthos could take a bowl and spoon. The young man smiled at her, a soft tinge of pink spreading over his cheeks as their eyes connected.

"If you meant nothing by it, you shouldn't sound so skeptical," Porthos said as Flea glided to Charon with the tray. Charon scowled at him as he took his share of dinner from the girl.

"Does it not strike you two as odd that a _child_ no older that two of our _youngest_ nearly had his head separated from his shoulders?" Charon growled. Flea frowned over her shoulder as her hands turned white in their grip of the tray, her back to Charon as she spoke.

"That only makes the situation all the more saddening," she muttered.

The tray hit the table with a rattling clang then, Flea shaking out her tattered and mismatched clothes with pursed lips.

"No more of this talk," she declared as she tossed her braided hair over her shoulders, tying it back with a slip of ribbon Porthos had given her a year ago. "It'll ruin our dinners which Ferrah worked so hard to put together."

Porthos spooned the stew into his mouth greedily as Flea sank almost regally into a chair near the cot, his body warming as his stomach filled. He focused on the meat and vegetables first, knowing Ferrah's stew always left the best flavoring in the broth. He didn't really listen to Charon and Flea's continued bickering but he did note how Flea's eyes misted over when she looked too long at the child he sat with.

"He's so small," she whispered, hands tightening over her bowl. She had been gazing at the boy for a while, the conversation forgotten for a moment until she broke the silence by speaking.

"The Father doesn't think he'll wake anytime soon," Charon groused between bites. His dark eyes burned in the candlelight as they stared over his bowl at the child they'd spent half the day patching back together. "Whoever did this best not ever meet me."

Porthos nodded as he shoveled a rather large chunk of meat into his mouth. There were few things that weren't tolerated by anyone in the Court; abusing a child was one of them. Having to do with being such a large community with very little room to stretch in the mornings, everyone knew everyone and everyone understood and felt the same pains as their neighbors. Children were lost thanks to illnesses each year and so the ones that lived were treated with only love and protective fancies. There was no such thing as senselessly harming a child in the Court.

As the night drew on, Charon and Flea drifted off to sleep in their chairs, the Father covering them and the child with blankets. He wrapped a blanket over Porthos' shoulders, telling him to not stay up too late. Porthos only nodded at him as he devoured the last of the solids in the stew. Porthos set the spoon aside and pressed the bowl to his lips when the head on his lap shifted, catching his attention.

Fluttering lids opened with guarded curiosity, brown orbs rolling to take in all they could in the dim light as the small brow scrunched in confusion. A small gasp passed through flaring nostrils when those wide eyes connected with Porthos' own. They stared at each other for a moment, the chamber filled with the sound of soft breathing and mumbled dreams. Porthos blinked first which was a strange feeling to say the least.

"Hello," he whispered. "I'm Porthos."

The boy's mouth cracked open in a hollow, gaping motion that lasted only a second before Porthos pressed a finger to his face, eyes panicked and sympathetic as the boy grimaced.

"Sorry," Porthos whispered, his hand falling to the boy's shoulder. "I don't know how, but I forgot about what the lot of us spent half a day fixing."

The boy's fisted hand twitched under the blanket and to his neck. He brushed his knuckles over the makeshift bandages, eyes growing scared as something haunted him. Porthos squeezed the boy's shoulder reassuringly.

"You're safe now," he said. "I promise that."

The child watched him for a moment with a scrutinizing expression, eyes narrowed in the candlelight as he studied Porthos. After a moment, he gave a slow blink, his chin falling towards his neck in a shallow nod. Porthos couldn't stop himself from smiling. The smile fell when the boy's eyes darted for the bowl in Porthos' hand, a pink tongue grazing over peeling lips.

"You must be hungry," Porthos murmured. "Just a moment," he whispered as he placed the bowl on the table. "Can't have you choking on broth. Flea'd kill me."

As he rambled, he wrapped an arm around the boy's body, his other paw-like hand cupping the base of the boy's head. With a bit of jostling and a few wincing apologies, he managed to sit the boy up. He rearranged the blankets and his coat so the boy's tattered clothes were covered before he reached for the broth and the spoon.

"Good thing I already ate everything solid it here, huh?" he asked with a wry grin.

The boy frowned and stuck out his tongue. He seemed unappreciative of the irony that Porthos didn't want him choking on broth by trying to drink it while lying down or on anything too difficult for his injured state to manage. Porthos snorted, head bowed towards his chest, shoulders quaking.

"Alright," he chuckled. "Sorry but you won't be missing anything. Ferrah's stews hold better broth than anyone I've ever known. You'll taste all the ingredients he used."

He scooped out some and held the bowl under the spoon as he guided it to the boy's mouth. He almost sighed with relief when the child only opened his mouth far enough to allow the spoon in rather than trying to open wide. He smiled as the boy's eyes rolled in appreciation as he savored the broth, slow spoonful by slow spoonful.

"Now," Porthos murmured as he scraped at the last of the broth, "I understand you shouldn't be speaking until you're healed up but I'll be expecting your name when you're completely healed. Only then though and don't you rush this. That's what I do and it's not fun."

The boy gave him a toothy smile that almost blinded him in the dim light. He smiled back, quickly noting that this child was one of those infectiously happy children when they really tried. He pressed the last spoonful to the boy's mouth and grinned when it disappeared down the boy's throat with a slight bob of his Adam's apple.

Porthos leaned over to the table to place the bowl and spoon aside when he was sure it was completely cleared of food. He wasn't pleased that he hadn't gotten to taste the broth but he wasn't about to leave an injured child hungry either. Besides, it was a relief that the boy even woke in the first place let alone allowed Porthos to feed him.

The chamber remained filled with the sound of soft breathing as the stars began to fade outside the large windows. Porthos scooted back to the boy's side, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders. The two of them would be told to sleep when the Father woke and found them to be awake but he didn't find himself minding. It would mean he'd have to catch up on the night of sleep he'd missed - not that he hated missing it either - and he stayed near the boy, should anything be required of him.

The boy nudged his arm as the first hints of dawn light began to peek over the rooftops. He glanced down to find himself staring at the boy's right hand as it cradled a small trinket in his palm. There was powdered dirt all over the boy's lap and under his nails which made Porthos think he'd clutched the trinket after it'd fallen in the mud.

He slowly picked the trinket out of the boy's hand, peering at its dirty frame for a moment before he gave up trying to decipher it past the dirt. He ran his tongue over the small oval, ignoring the soft slap to his shoulder, and rubbed it against his sleeve. He held it up to the light again, staring in awe at the silver casing embossed with a family crest that was rounded by slivers of blue sapphire.

"This your family's crest?" he asked. The boy blushed before his eyes fell to his lap.

Porthos frowned.

"A friend give this to you?" The boy smiled. Porthos hummed in approval as he stared at the trinket once more. He pressed it back into the boy's palm, folding his tiny fingers around it again.

"That'll need a chain then," he chuckled. The boy stared at him as Porthos smirked. "I'll take care of it."


	4. Of Chains and Tears: Porthos

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck. Plus, I'm beginning to think I've written everyone OOC but it's A.R. so...screw it.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Porthos: 17**

**d'Artagnan: Almost 6**

* * *

A few months passed with little change while Porthos watched over the boy's healing with Flea and the old Father.

Charon had been out for most of the process; someone had to keep the younger members of the Court out of trouble as well as look for clues on anyone willing to harm a child in daylight. Though, the dark skinned, young man tended to return with small sweets for the injured boy and soft pats on the head for the genuine smiles he was given for the presents. He had his heart set on finding the boy's attackers and rid the world of their filth but he seemed unable to escape those shy smiles of thanks.

While Charon was the least dynamic of the three when it came to dealing with the boy in their charge, Flea was the overbearing yet protective mother, wishing her sweet, innocent child never have any harm come to him. The boy was patient with her constant checking of his bandages as well as her incessant need to make sure he'd eaten or was warm enough under the mountain of blankets she'd bury him under. She frowned at the sweets Charon brought but didn't argue when the boy showed such glee at the sight of them.

Yet, it was Porthos who found his arm clasped in small hugs, his chest being leaned into, and his attentions searched for by the boy rather than those of Charon or Flea. When the Father looked over and smoothed salve over the stitching, the boy practically yanked Porthos over to sit next to him, hands wrapping in white knuckled grasps in Porthos' shirts. When it was time to eat, it was Porthos' bowl he inspected before sipping at his. When dusk fell, the boy was pressing into Porthos' side for warmth.

It was a bit of a surprise when Porthos found himself able to sneak out of the chamber one morning. The spring sun was beginning to crest over the glittering rooftops as he slipped out of the Court of Miracles and into the loud hub of the Paris marketplace. There was a jeweler he knew to have sturdy chains for trinkets and timepieces who would give him one at a reasonable price – or none at all should it be the case.

The chain would have to be long to remain comfortable around the boy's neck as he grew. It had taken a bit of constant questioning to get the boy's age out of him but Porthos hadn't minded. The child would be six within the month from what he'd gathered from the boy's gestured answers. Porthos could at least ensure his only possession remained safe after everything. Besides, he liked to keep his promises where he could and a chain was a small thing and this little trip shouldn't take him too long.

Bayard tended to open his shop early to allow for wandering – or desperate – souls to find his pieces while he was mostly empty. He kept his rusty hair combed back and tied in a simple ribbon and had the habit of ruffling his cuffs when he wanted to look impressive. He fooled no one though seeing as there were some women taller than his stout personage. Porthos and Charon towered over the rather round forty-year-old as well.

"Bayard," Porthos called from the doorway, a wide grin on his face as the portly man stumbled out of the back.

"Ah, Porthos," the man sighed. "Gave me a fright you did. What brings you?"

"A simple errand," Porthos shrugged, pulling as his loose shirt as he sniffed dismissively. "There's a child with a trinket that requires a chain you see but….He's ill at the moment so I've come to find one for him."

Bayard smiled, his mustache bristling against his fat cheeks as he nodded in a sage like motion.

"Naturally," he snickered. "You're sure it's for a trinket?" Porthos gave him a wounded look, earning a laugh.

"I only jest, Lad," Bayard chuckled as he opened a drawer filled with chains of all sizes and lengths. "Now then, how long and how sturdy?"

Porthos leaned against the small display as he hummed in thought. "Well," he hummed as he rubbed his chin. "The boy's almost six so it will need to be fairly long. Also, he's in the Court so the thicker the chain links the better. The trinket's a bit small though."

Bayard nodded as he shuffled through the links before pulling one free with a deft sweep of his hand. In all regards, the chain links were only of average size and the chain would have come to a low at only the middle of Porthos' wide chest. Yet, with the trinket's relative size in mind, the chain would be thick and sturdy as Porthos required it to be. Also, it would be long enough for the child to hide the trinket even in the large shirts Charon had found him.

"That'll do nicely," Porthos said with a wide grin. "What should I pay you for such useful wares?"

"Ack!" Bayard scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand and a disgusted look on his face. "Don't be ridiculous! If not for you and your friends, I'd have been robbed blind last week. No, you get this as a small repayment to a great favor."

Porthos grinned as the chain fell into his palm. "Thank you Bayard. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

Bayard laughed as Porthos slipped out of the shop and into the sparse crowd that had begun to clog the narrow street as vendors opened their stalls for business. The return trip to the Court took longer than he would have liked due to his need to avoid the crowds as much as possible but it took him past the training yard of the Musketeers.

The yard echoed with the sound of clanging metal and the grunts of frustrated men. Porthos watched from the gate with awe as three men each charge a young man with short, brown hair and the shadow of morning stubble lining his sharp jawline with wide arcs of their swords. The young man, who could not be all that much older than Porthos was, laughed as he batted the swords away like a kitten with yarn. Some of the men on the sidelines were calling out suggestions to the losing combatants while the young man they fought was calling out his own jests as he circled them.

Porthos smirked. The brunette wasn't an idiot, no matter how much he jested. He kept his eyes on his opponents, his blade ready for an attack from any direction, and he remained in motion to make it harder to be caught. Porthos would admit he was skilled as well seeing as he was winning in an unfair fight. He was impressive.

The fight ended when another man called for it to stop, yelling at the three for starting it over something stupid. The young man apologized for his disruption as he sheathed his sword and straightened his coat. As the thoroughly beaten three limped off, the authoritative man started speaking to the brunette.

"Well fought," he said with an air of restrained awe. "I'd expect no less though, with all things considered."

"I apologize again for the disruption Monsieur de Tréville," the brunette growled, his eyes trailing his earlier attackers. "They spoke ill of someone they had no knowledge that I knew personally."

"The offence was taken none the less," Tréville stated as he rested his hand on the decorative pommel of his sword. The young man nodded, face set with a determined glare as if trying to gauge if Tréville too would make another comment he could not ignore.

"Indeed," the brunette fighter stated after a chilled moment.

Tréville smiled genially, shuffling a step closer to the young man before him. The brunette stood his ground with a cool expression on his face. Tréville chuckled.

"My apologies for my men," Tréville said with a slight bow to the young man. "We're still working through a few hitches on last year's recruits sadly. Half my men are good but cocky you see while the other half are extraordinary but interested in only the pleasures of life."

"You should whip your men then," the brunette stated with an arrogant tilt of his chin. "I would have by now if they were that undisciplined."

"Well then, you wouldn't have very many men under you then now would you?"

"I'd prefer to have the best under my command and nothing less," the brunette stated. "Besides, I'm only here due to my father wishing I go into the military and be honorable and the like. I'd much rather be somewhere else than dealing with your slipshod men."

Tréville laughed then, the young man flushing an impressive shade of red.

"Where would you _prefer_ to be then, young man?" Tréville asked through his sputtering laughter.

"Gascony," was the firm reply. The laughter halted.

"Why there of all places? Nothing happens there. I should know being a Gascon myself."

"True," the brunette stated. "It's just…I have a good friend there; one I'd protect with my life if need be. My father may wish for me to get a commission and gain a bit more respect past my heritage but I have my own reasons to join up with any section of the King's men."

"This good friend of yours being the main one naturally," Tréville reasoned. The brunette nodded, his lips drawn in a smile.

"Well," Tréville sighed, rocking back on his heels. "I may not appreciate some of your reasons but at least I can agree with the ones that matter. Hopefully, you're next visit to Gascony will be as a fully commissioned Musketeer."

As Tréville walked off, a Spaniard with short, black hair and a goatee danced up to the brunette's side with a smug smile.

"I told you our dear Captain would be impressed by you, my good sir," the Spaniard snickered as he jabbed the brunette in a playful manner.

"Hush you," the brunette chuckled.

"It true though? You'd really prefer to be off in Gascony?"

"I've spent the last four springs in Gascony," the brunette grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest. The Spaniard laughed, leaning backwards to nearly toppling over.

"That friend of yours must be something!" the Spaniard smiled. He ignored the dark glare the brunette sent his way in favor of continuing on with his commentary. "I do hope you stay as a Musketeer. We're far more interesting. Not to mention, more fun. You'll probably end up being the best of us or something surely."

The Spaniard smacked the brunette's shoulder and disappeared after a few other men, chattering at them genially as he pleased. The brunette scowled after him for a moment before dusting off his shoulder. His brown eyes met Porthos' as he picked at imaginary dust from his shoulder. Porthos flushed as the young man smiled at him, tipping his wide brimmed hat for good measure. He bent his head in respect before rushing off.

He was late and he just knew Flea was going to have a fit when he managed to stumble back into the Court.

"Where have you _been_?" Charon yelled when Porthos ran into him when he slipped back into the Court of Miracles through a hidden entrance on the north end. Porthos gave a breathy laugh as he pushed past his friend, who stumbled after him as he continued to run to the Father's chambers.

"I was taking care of something I promised I'd do and lost track of time," Porthos said as he barreled past people and over obstacles. Charon raced after him.

"Lost track of time?! Doing what?"

Porthos flushed. "Watching the Musketeers practice?" he called back, hoping his friend wouldn't be too angry for his vested – and known – interest in one of the best of the King's armed forces. Charon had never been shy about showing how he felt on Porthos' wish to be something other than a street rat.

"Flea is going to skin you alive Porthos!" Charon yelled as they skidded around corners and tripped up the steps to the chamber. There was a growl in his voice that spoke of his irritation but he was wisely not voicing it any further.

"That's the _least_ I'll be doing!" Flea screeched at them from the top of the stairs. Charon collided into Porthos, who had halted as soon as Flea had started screaming, and both boys slammed down onto the steps with a chorused groan.

"Flea," Porthos began, his cheeks flushed as he gazed up at her column straight figure and storming eyes. Her blonde hair looked like a halo in the sunlight beaming through the windows of the hall.

"Don't," she barked out, the two boys flinching from the sound. "Disappearing on everyone? Before any of us woke? How could you?"

"Flea," Porthos tried again as he struggled to his feet, untangling his legs from Charon's flowing clothes. His hand fished the chain from his pocket as he struggled about.

"Quiet!" the blonde girl screeched again.

"Well," Charon huffed as he and Porthos separated their legs and clothes from one another. He hopped up the steps to stand next to Flea and continued saying, "He can't rightly explain himself if you're telling him to shut up before he can even start to explain no can he?"

"You as well Charon," Flea barked. "Both of you, be silent!"

They snapped their jaws shut and stood stalk still before her at the top of the steps, heads bowed at the girl who was slightly shorter than them. They kept their eyes fixed on her face though, Porthos clutching the chain in his fist behind his back while Charon clasped a hand around his wrist in front of himself.

"First, Charon wishes damnation on the people who harmed that boy and then _you_, the one person he doesn't let leave the chambers, up and disappear on everyone?!" Flea screamed. "What were you thinking?"

"The Father's in a right mood too," Charon growled over his shoulder at Porthos.

"I thought I said for you to be quiet," Flea growled. She rounded on Porthos again. "Where have you _been_ all day, Porthos?"

"I-," he began only to find himself interrupted.

"Porthos?" a soft, voice croaked.

Porthos leaned forward, eyes wide in shock at the sight before him. There, in the doorway of the Father's chambers, stood the boy in a shirt that he was swimming in. The collar had slipped off the boy's right shoulder while one of the sleeves had slipped over his hand. He had the sleeve covered hand hovering at his neck, hiding the bandages as well as his mouth.

"Lad," Porthos breathed, his body sliding around his friends of its own accord, his arms extending out in a welcoming gesture as he knelt on the floor.

"Porthos!" the boy croaked, tears flooding his brown eyes, before he dashed into Porthos' arms. Tiny arms wrapped around Porthos' neck, warmth spreading through the older boy and cradling his very heart in a loving embrace. Warm tears fell onto his neck as he held the boy close to his chest, something within it stinging.

"Sorry Lad," Porthos whispered as Flea petted the boy's hair and Charon patted his tiny arms. "Sorry for scaring you."

"Where…_were_…you?" the boy hiccupped past his cracking, underused voice. Porthos rubbed his back in long, slow motions as a spasm of coughing overtook the boy's small frame.

"And now you've made him sicker," Flea hissed.

"Well done," Charon groaned.

"Quiet you two," Porthos barked. He lifted the boy from the floor, standing and striding back into the chamber room. "Just get him some water while I calm him and explain to someone who'll _listen_ to me!"

With that, he kicked the heavy door closed, a hand pressing the boy's head into his neck in an almost territorially protective hold. He didn't like how light the boy was in his arms. Charlotte wasn't this light and she wasn't all that much older than the boy he held. Porthos understood that the boy was tiny and hadn't been able to eat more than broth for the last month but he still shouldn't have weighed so little.

"Where-?" the boy began before another chough racked its way through him.

"Easy, Lad," Porthos admonished in a gentle fashion. "You've not used your voice in a while and your throat must still be raw from that injury. Slow down. I'll tell you. Just take it easy."

The boy nodded, his brow buried against Porthos' neck as he clenched a hand in the back of Porthos' shirt. Porthos patted his back gently as he sank them both into a chair.

"I was in town," Porthos explained slowly as he rearranged the boy's legs over his lap so the child was leaning against his chest. He placed his chin on top of soft dark hair, taking a deep breath before he continued.

"I lost track of time when I passed by the Musketeer training yard. There was this young man, no older than I, sparing three others. He won and was asked to take up a commission."

The boy tugged at Porthos' shirt, his head pressing against Porthos' clavicle. His long lashes tickled Porthos' skin as he blinked, listening intently if his silence was anything to go by. Porthos lifted his head from the boy's, clearing his throat.

"Now, as to _why_ I was in the city," Porthos grunted as he unfurled the chain in front of the boy.

The child stared at it for a moment with a confused expression before realization lit over his face. He pulled his arm over Porthos' shoulder, settling it between his body and Porthos' chest as he shook the sleeve down to his elbow to reveal a fist. His fingers opened like a blooming flower bud, the trinket sitting prettily on his palm.

"I told you I'd take care of it didn't I?" Porthos chuckled as he bumped his nose to the boy's temple. The child nodded, his brown eyes remaining wide.

"Here, let me put it on the chain for you, Lad," Porthos said as he plucked the trinket from the child's palm and moved to attach it to the chain while keeping the boy caged between his arms and body.

"d'Artagnan," the child croaked.

Porthos' fingers stilled, his neck arching so he could look at the boy's eyes.

"My name."

Porthos smiled. "Right." He pressed the trinket's clasp tightly around the link. "This will need a bit more fixing before it's done but until then, this should do you. Just, don't fiddle with it too much, d'Art."

D'Artagnan smiled, nodding as Porthos slipped the chain over his head.

"You need better clothes too," Porthos grumbled, hugging d'Artagnan close again. "You're going to be a handful aren't you?"

The boy simply smiled into Porthos' chest.


	5. First Meeting: Aramis

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**Also, a quick note that the building the relationships between Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan are going to be the quickest chapters up. Mostly because they were pretty much written out by the time I started posting and partly because I'm using this fic as an excuse to rewatch the episodes. And college is still an issue so...there may be many a haitus in the future. All apologies here and now since I feel a need to apoligize that life will eat me again. Also, still have to finish "Chained to a Wall" and "Everything's Connected" so...sorry.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Porthos: 19 (Almost 20)**

**Aramis: 18 (Almost 19)**

**d'Artagnan: 8**

* * *

While Aramis was a lover of all things female and romantic, he could not fault the twenty year old Porthos for his impressive skill at swordplay. Porthos had joined up the year before, claiming his lack of family and young age to be the last things their captain should worry over. Aramis, being a year younger than Porthos could only agree with the claims seeing as Tréville really only needed to worry over training him.

Aramis had taken to Porthos' side like none other past his other friend Marsac. Where Marsac was cautious and liked following rules he was given, Porthos was brash, confident, and aware of things in the city confines Aramis had been nearly unaware of until he'd met the young mulatto man with fire in his eyes. Porthos was an adventure waiting to happen and Aramis wanted to be at his side when it came calling.

Though, Aramis was always confused that Porthos would stop in front of the main gate to the Court of Miracles whenever they passed it on patrols, the fire in his eyes diming as he stared at the gate longingly. It was an expression Athos got on his face when spring came about or when someone mentioned anything on Gascony. It was like they were missing parts of themselves and couldn't access them no matter how much they wished to.

"Why do you stare at it?" Aramis asked one day, trying to make another friendship that would mean more than the mutual camaraderie all the Musketeers held for one another. Porthos had to shake himself from his musings to stare at Aramis for a moment, like he was trying to figure out what had been said to him.

"I…I have friends here," Porthos admitted.

Aramis gave him a sympathetic look. Almost everyone in the Court of Miracles was a branded criminal. There were rumors and tales he'd heard of families with children living within the walls but he hadn't believed it. Not until now. Not until Porthos proved them true.

"I don't want your pity, Aramis," Porthos groused, stomping off into the city market.

"It's not pity," Aramis said when he caught up with Porthos again in the crowds. "It's sympathy."

"To feel sympathy requires feeling pity," Porthos shot back. He was right, naturally.

"It's also an understanding between others; a common feeling if you will," Aramis said with a cheeky grin, hoping to lighten the mood. Porthos only grunted at him.

They continued weaving through the crowds until Porthos was stopped by a portly jeweler with a bright smile. The two chatted, seemingly uncaring that Aramis was listening to them the whole time, about how Porthos wasn't looking like a street rat, that someone called Dart – or something – had come by to get something fixed, and that it had been done free of charge.

"You must of done some good if you're getting things free of charge from that jeweler," Aramis commented gently once Porthos separated from the man. "I've known him to be rather stingy."

"Bayard has a revenue to look after," Porthos mumbled. "My friends and I just kept it safe for him a couple times."

Aramis hummed his approval. He'd heard a few hushed whispers in his three years with the Musketeers over how old Bayard seemed to have street kids protecting his shop at night. He was beginning to think that Porthos would soon shed far more light on this city than he even thought possible.

They were nearing the training yard again when a shout came from overhead. Aramis' hand flew to his sword before his mind registered the voice had called for Porthos.

"d'Art!" Porthos cried in horror as he looked up to a perched on the sill of a window. "Get _down_ from there! It's dangerous!"

"Ack! You sound like Flea!" the boy called back, long dark hair falling over his eyes and olive colored brow.

"That doesn't change the fact!"

"Oh alright," the boy sighed as he leapt onto a stacked box under the window. Porthos took in a sharp breath when it teetered, the boy's arms flailing about before he hopped down to the street and rolled to Porthos' side.

"If Charon were here…" Porthos was muttering as he lifted the boy to his feet and ran searching hands over his tiny body. The boy was obviously being fed, his body all lean muscle that was put to use in his apparent antics, despite his possible status – or lack thereof.

"But he's not," the boy said with a grin that glowed like summer sunshine against his olive skin.

"One of the friends I presume," Aramis chuckled, gaining their attentions.

As the boy glanced his way, he thought he saw a line of darkened skin carving its way through part of the child's throat. He couldn't be sure though due to d'Art's hand flying up to cover his throat as he ducked behind Porthos' bulky frame. Porthos gave Aramis a challenging look as if daring him to try something.

"I try to be friendly," Aramis sighed, his eyes peering around Porthos to look at the child behind him. He frowned when he saw the boy desperately trying to hide his neck.

"He's got trust issues," Porthos stated, standing between Aramis and the boy clinging to his pant leg. "Understandable ones."

Aramis nodded, his eyes remaining on the boy as his tiny fingers lost their grip on his shirt collar to reveal a long, jagged scar running from his left ear to the dip at the base of his throat. He nearly uttered a prayer for the boy as another part of him flared with rage at the mistreatment of a child.

Instead, he signaled for Porthos to wait a moment and wandered over to a stall selling scarves. He bought a simple black one that would be utilitarian for any weather or function. He then knelt before the boy, unfurling the fabric as he waited for curious eyes to peer around a leg at him. He smiled at the boy, continuing to fuss with the fabric so it was folded in half.

"What're you doing?" Porthos asked.

Aramis smirked at him as he held an end of the folded scarf in each hand. He flung it over the child's head, deftly shoving the separate tails into the hole at the fold at the scarf's half point. He fiddled with it a bit more so the scarf was flat around the boy's neck, the tails lying against his hips.

"I think he'll grow into that nicely, don't you?" Aramis asked as he stood, a hand ruffling soft, black hair.

"T-thank you," the boy mumbled from behind Porthos' leg.

Aramis nodded. "Not a problem." He dusted off the knees of his trousers as he straightened up. "Porthos, we should be going. Tréville will scold us if we're late."

Porthos nodded at him with a dumb expression on his face before turning to the boy. They shared a few quick words, the boy parting from him after a quick hug. Aramis smiled after the boy's disappearing form.

"Thanks for that," Porthos murmured as they reentered the training yard.

"I saw the scar and felt an urge," Aramis shrugged as they passed Athos – Aramis' senior in years by seven years – and his newest victims in sparing practice. Athos was winning, as expected, as well as ripping the men new ones for shoddy work.

"Might I ask…how old is he?"

"Who? d'Art? He'll nine this spring," Porthos admitted.

Aramis took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed as he took note that the boy was ten years his younger. _Porthos is older than the boy by eleven years then_, he reasoned. A few things were beginning to make sense.

"He's your reason," Aramis sighed.

"Heh?"

"That boy," Aramis clarified. "He's the reason you joined. Isn't he?"

Porthos flushed at the question. Aramis told him to forget he'd asked it. He already had the answer though, and it made him jealous. Porthos and Athos had reasons to be Musketeers other than trying to simply have a livelihood in Paris as well as gain an identity as something other than their origins. He had come in with his friend Marsac looking to gain glory in battle and lovely women falling at his feet before he would go into the priesthood.

However, he had a feeling his motives were changing after the meeting of little d'Art.


	6. Savoy and Shooting: Aramis

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**Also, a quick note that the building the relationships between Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan are going to be the quickest chapters up. Mostly because they were pretty much written out by the time I started posting and partly because I'm using this fic as an excuse to rewatch the episodes. And college is still an issue so...there may be many a haitus in the future. All apologies here and now since I feel a need to apoligize that life will eat me again. Also, still have to finish "Chained to a Wall" and "Everything's Connected" so...sorry.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Porthos: 21**

**Aramis: 20**

**d'Artagnan: 10**

* * *

He was surrounded by the bodies of his fellows, the air shrouded in fog and the smoke of lit powder. The tents were destroyed if not lying limply from their constructed ties and stands. It was leaning late into the afternoon, the smell of the dead bringing the crows and ravens. Aramis, as much as he wished to protect what little dignity his comrades had left in their dishonoring deaths, couldn't move from where he was sitting beneath a stunted tree.

As the smell of spent gun powder faded in favor for the stabbing scent of decay, Aramis thought over what had gotten him here. He and Marsac had celebrated his twentieth birthday not two days ago. Porthos had jeered at him just the other day when he'd heard, commenting on Aramis being experienced for such a young man. Athos, in his quiet and stoic way, congratulated him just before Tréville gave Aramis and his troupe an assignment.

Simple training exercise. That's what this was supposed to be. Nothing was supposed to happen damn it. Yet, here he sat amongst dead men, alone, cold, sore, and despondent. His friends were dead, most killed in their sleep. Those who hadn't been killed while they slept, were slaughtered. He wasn't even sure how he and Marsac had survived.

Marsac had disappeared on him, leaving him with the bodies and the guilt of surviving something this hauntingly awful. Aramis wasn't sure when he'd sat down after being left but he knew he didn't want to get up.

He wasn't sure how many days had passed either, if the smell was dulled to him or really only starting up. He wasn't sure the number of crows was too great or too small. All he knew was he couldn't look away.

When large, gloved hands brushed back bangs from his brow, he found himself frowning. He'd been left alone; he knew that. So who was holding his face so gently? Who was calling his name with so much worry in their deep, rumbling voice?

"Aramis? I need you to tell me what hurts," the voice called.

Aramis blinked, trying to focus on something other than the bodies surrounding him. He managed to focus on the gloved hands cupping his face, a thumb brushing a wetness from his cheeks. He followed them up to fiery eyes set in a squared face with a strong jaw. A silk scarf was tied over the person's hair, the braided tail of it falling over the man's shoulder.

"Aramis," the man groaned, his hands pressing Aramis' cheeks as they tried to not shake him.

"Porthos?"

"_Dieu merci_," another voice breathed out, another set of hands stilling on Aramis' torso. Aramis' head lolled to the side to see who else he was speaking to.

"Athos?"

"What hurts?" Porthos insisted, his paw-like hands steadying Aramis' head again. His dark eyes were blazing intensity.

"E-everything," Aramis heard himself admit.

"He's got a few bruises and scrapes," Athos confirmed. "Nothing life threatening or infected though." He laid a hand on Aramis' shoulder, eyes filled with an understanding that Aramis could not place. "Are you the only one?"

Aramis was silent for a moment. It was such an ambiguous question. Surely, Athos and Porthos weren't the only ones sent to check on this fallen troupe if they were late in returning. _Days must have passed then_, Aramis reasoned. Yet, he wasn't sure if Athos was asking if he was the only one left alive or if he was the person left here.

Aramis didn't even realize he was crying until Porthos bundled him into a firm hug, his tears falling against Porthos' warm breast. Athos' hand rubbed firm circles on Aramis' back as sobs wracked his body, everything he'd been numb to crashing into the forefront of his mind.

His friends were dead. The one that had survived had gone off, swearing to find the ones responsible for this tragedy. He'd been alone for days, not eating or drinking. It was fall and the cold had bitten into his body past the shirt and trousers. The only contact he'd gotten in days was from his checking the bodies for survivors before he'd shut down.

He clutched at Porthos' jacket, not caring what he looked or sounded like. Everything hurt. Absolutely everything hurt. He wanted to curl into a ball and die it hurt so much. He wanted to never leave this warmth holding him together. He never wanted another friend to leave him.

The two let him cry, telling the others to mind their own damned business when questions were asked. The new troupe stayed in that hell for two days, Porthos and Athos slowly coaxing Aramis to eat and speak again without feeling sorry for himself – never once telling him to get over the situation and move on – while the others collected and wrapped the dead in blankets and what was left of the tents.

The return to Paris was silent, Porthos hovering near Aramis with a worried look in those fiery eyes of his. Porthos said nothing aloud past asking if Aramis was hungry, thirsty, tired, or if anything hurt. Athos actively helped Porthos throw rocks at anyone who muttered anything ill intentioned. Porthos even threatened to shoot one of the others for saying Aramis should've been on higher alert, even in a training exercise.

"How would you know, you lazy good for nothing?" Porthos growled. "You don't even know who was on watch when they were attacked, let alone who attacked them!"

"At _ease_ Porthos," Athos called as he brushed a cloth over Aramis' soaked and raw cheeks and nose. "Tréville will hear of their comments once we return either way. You shouldn't bother shooting them when they've already done it themselves."

It still took Porthos a long minute to slide the pistol back into place on his belt.

Tréville was understandably unhappy when he was told of the incident at the border of Savoy. He was far more angered at the other men's commentaries though and went off to deal with them while Porthos and Athos guided Aramis to his dorm in the barracks. Athos left to fetch the surgeon, wishing to be sure Aramis truly was physically healthy while Porthos coaxed Aramis to eat some of the porridge he'd grabbed on their way in.

Aramis wasn't hungry. He was starving but he refused the food. He'd eaten some on the way back but as soon as he'd been sat in Tréville's office, his stomach had tied itself in a knot and he couldn't even think of food. The porridge had cooled by the time Athos arrived with the surgeon who deemed Aramis healthy though suffering shock from trauma.

"Try to get him to eat," the surgeon whispered to the two in the doorway, like Aramis' health was a conspiracy that shouldn't be overheard. "Don't leave him alone either. I've seen some lose themselves to the grief of surviving." The three men frowned at Aramis with concern that burned him so badly he had to look away from them.

Aramis wanted nothing to do with loneliness though. He wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up in Porthos' arms again where it was warm and safe. He wished there were thicker curtains on the window though, the bright sunlight making him physically ill at how damned cheery it was being.

Athos and Porthos took overlapping shifts for a few days, coaxing Aramis into daily habits as they had on the trip form Savoy, until Athos came in one day announcing he had to return home. His father was dying and he had to take up responsibilities which left him having to go into the reserves. Porthos had given his sympathies for Athos' father and wished him a safe trip.

Aramis wanted to crawl into a hole again.

After Athos left, Aramis found himself with Porthos more often than not. Porthos, who was still on duty in a sense, would drag Aramis out of his room and to the training yards. He'd settle him at a table and tell him not to go anywhere or there would be pain before going off to spar with other Musketeers. When practice was over, he'd drag Aramis off for food or along with him on patrols.

Aramis was never out of his sight and Aramis found he was annoyed at the paranoia. He got so annoyed, he left his dorm early one morning and slipped out while Porthos continued sleeping. He wanted some time alone – never mind how the very thought of being as such hurt him on a physical level – and if Porthos wasn't going to give it to him, he'd take it himself.

He wandered the streets all through the morning, a hand on his sword so as to keep his legs from being tangled by it as he walked. He had pressed his wide brimmed hat down as far as he could get it and kept his head bowed so the sunlight wouldn't hit his face. It was still far too cheery for him at the moment.

He passed working women who teased at a good time, baring shoulders and shins from their windows and doorways. He almost took some of them up on their offers when it occurred to him that he wouldn't enjoy anything they tried. He'd just want to talk about Savoy, the pain, the fact that he'd not told anyone else Marsac was not dead.

He wanted it all off his chest while he also wanted no one past the Musketeers to know. He also wished no one in the Musketeers to know. Especially not Porthos or Athos who had been kind enough to be there for him when he'd shut everything and everyone else out. Just as, he realized, he was still doing.

He was leaning against a wall in an alley when he started becoming aware of himself again. His body faced the wall, his head down, an arm wrapped over his aching stomach as he stared down at vomit in the dirt. It was as pale and bland looking as the porridge Porthos was making him eat but he knew he hadn't eaten today. He held the back of his hand to his mouth as he looked up to the sky to try to gain some sense.

"Midafternoon," he whispered to no one in particular. "Porthos must be worried sick."

"Well then, what the hell're you doing?" a small voice asked from behind him.

Aramis frowned, turning with a drunken wobble to face a boy with black hair, olive skin, curious eyes, and a scarf about his neck. His clothes were a bit lose on his form but not because he'd been lacking in food. They were just big on him. Aramis recognized the scarf though.

"You're…"

"Porthos' friend," d'Art affirmed. "I'm called d'Artagnan, by the way." He held out a hand.

"Nice to meet you," Aramis croaked as he extended his own only to withdraw it so he could take off his vomit smeared glove. The boy chuckled at his kindness.

"I live on the streets you know?"

"No reason to touch refuse that's not your own," Aramis grumbled.

"What's wrong?"

"…Huh?" Surely the boy was only guessing. He couldn't know anything.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, rubbing his fingers over his brow as his other hand fell on his hip.

"Every time I've seen you before last month, you're always happy. You joke, laugh, and flirt with every woman passing your way."

"You've been _watching_ me?"

"I've been watching _Porthos_ you idiot," d'Artagnan snarled. "_Someone_ has to make sure he's staying out of trouble but no one in the Court wants to get near a Musketeer. I'm new enough it won't matter…long as I don't do anything too stupid, mind."

"And you've ended up watching me as well," Aramis mumbled as his mind put it together.

Patrols weren't set things for new recruits. One went where he was told when he was told. That was how Aramis had ended up with Porthos on quite a few patrols. Athos had been on a few with him as well.

The boy nodded at him with that smile of sunshine. Aramis found it didn't hurt nearly as badly as it should have.

"I never saw you," he grumbled.

"Well, I'd surely _hope_ not! That's the _intention_!" d'Artagnan laughed. "Now," he continued, a hand catching up Aramis' ungloved one, "tell me what's wrong."

"I…I can't," Aramis mumbled, pulling his hand from the boy's. Their fingers slipped apart and his heart broke once more. He wanted to hit himself for revealing the boy's assumption to be correct just because he'd opened his mouth.

The boy scrunched his lips together, pointing them towards his right eye as he crossed his arms. He looked like he'd wait this out for as long as it would take. Aramis almost didn't want to let him. A much louder part of him, however, growled for him to remain silent.

"Fine then," d'Artagnan grumbled. "Don't tell me. It's not really my business after all." His arms fell to his sides as he looked down the alleyway with a far off look in his eyes. "Sorry. I shouldn't have pried but…"

"But?" Aramis heard himself prompting.

The boy glanced at him nervously. "I know that expression you're wearing."

Aramis cocked his head as he knelt to look the boy in the eyes. "How so?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.

"I've worn something like it myself," the boy admitted, his chin held high like he was acknowledging an achievement.

Aramis scoffed at him. The boy didn't glare though, his eyes just impassive as they stared at Aramis for a long, chilling moment. He lifted a hand to the scarf, pulling it loose and slipping it over his head. Aramis stared at the scar he had managed to forget in the last year of not seeing the boy.

His fingertips grazed over the ugly line of their own accord as tears gathered in his eyes for someone other than himself. He wanted to question how the boy got it as well as what the chain around his neck hid but the scar kept his mouth shut.

"I know that expression," the boy repeated. "I used to wear it when I was healing, when I was alone or with people I wasn't sure I liked. It'd leave when I was with Flea or Porthos or Charon but I preferred Porthos' company most."

"And he's a Musketeer now," Aramis whispered. The ten year old nodded with a tear dripping from his eye.

"I don't wear it anymore though," d'Artagnan assured him.

"Oh?" Aramis asked with an unbidden chuckle. "Why not?"

"Because Porthos and Charon taught me how to use a knife as well as my fists, and I have a bit of sword skill thanks to another friend," the boy snickered.

"All that's left is shooting," Aramis groaned, his hand falling to his knee. The boy wrapped the scarf back around his neck with a confident smile.

"Would you like to teach me?" he asked.

"Why should I teach you anything? What'll you use it for?"

"I'm going to protect the people I care about once I'm old enough," the boy stated. His chin was held high as he smiled that infectious smile of his that held pure sunlight. "Also, you need a distraction. That's what Porthos would say…if he weren't being all gentle with you."

"Gentle?! I assure you-!" Aramis cried only to have the boy smack a small hand over his mouth, an amused smirk crossing the young face before him.

"He's _never_ that nice," d'Artagnan said, his hand falling away from Aramis' mouth. "At least, not with people he doesn't care about."

"Oh…"

"Indeed," d'Artagnan snickered again. His eyes flashed then as he glanced down the alleyway. "I guess you were right, about him being worried sick."

"Oh that was only speculation," Aramis grumbled, looking away from the boy. He tried to ignore the laughter that echoed through the alleyway.

"Aramis!" Porthos' rumbling voice thundered.

"P-Porthos?" Aramis stammered. His head whipped around the alley only to find he was alone, the boy gone, and Porthos storming towards him.

"_Dieu_! You have everyone worried!" Porthos yelled. "I've been looking all over for you!"

"I…Wished to clear my head a bit," Aramis mumbled.

"_Warn_ a man next time!" Porthos bellowed, shoving Aramis' shoulders. "Tréville is going to have your head when we get back."

"An earned reward I guess," Aramis smiled. Porthos scowled and stormed out of the alley.

"I expect lessons," d'Artagnan hissed from behind a crate.

"How-?" The boy gave him a look that questioned Aramis' sanity. "Right…street kid."

"You may want to catch up with that big hypocrite," d'Artagnan snickered as he pointed the way Porthos had left.

"Strange boy you are," Aramis jeered back as he stumbled after his comrade. "Evenings, here. If you're late, I will leave."

"Understood," the boy called before darting off.

Aramis managed to spot him again later that afternoon as he was returning home. He smiled at the boy as he spoke to a pair of girls, one with blonde hair, the other with fiery red. They all sat, perched on crates and barrels, snickering to each other. He was tempted to step up to them, act like a responsible adult and tell them they should head home, but stopped when another child raced up to the three and chattered at them with an urgent voice. He contented himself with watching the four disappear into the dusk, praying for them to stay safe.

He couldn't bear to lose another person at the moment. Especially not the one who'd snapped him out of his last bout of self-pity.

He held a loose fist to his mouth, his head bent as he whispered, "Angels of God, from heaven so bright, watching besides my children to lead them aright; fold your wings 'round them, and guard them with love; softly sing songs to them from heaven above." He crossed himself then with a shaky breath. "Amen."


	7. Charred Remains: Athos

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**Also, a quick note that the building the relationships between Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan are going to be the quickest chapters up. Mostly because they were pretty much written out by the time I started posting and partly because I'm using this fic as an excuse to rewatch the episodes. And college is still an issue so...there may be many a haitus in the future. All apologies here and now since I feel a need to apoligize that life will eat me again. Also, still have to finish "Chained to a Wall" and "Everything's Connected" so...sorry.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 42**

**Porthos: 36**

**Aramis: 35**

**d'Artagnan: 25**

* * *

At forty-two, Athos wasn't sure what wrong turn he'd taken to end up where he was. He'd buried his parents, taking full responsibility as the new Count de le Fère. He remained in the Musketeer reserves so that he would hold a place there should he need to return for any reason and kept in contact with Captain Tréville when he could between his duties and exhaustion from said duties. He'd had to bury his brother as well after the woman Athos loved and had married killed him.

He sat on his horse, staring up at the woman he'd committed himself to for all time. He could only think of happy days and forget-me-nots in the sunlight, wondering how he'd ended up having to sentence her to death. Her eyes were accusatory as the cart was pushed out from under her feet. His stomach turned and he spun his horse away.

Gascony was always beautiful in the spring, he remembered as he rode off. He hadn't been there in twenty years. Little d'Artagnan would be turning twenty-five, his mind supplied as he raced through the countryside. Maybe, he never should have listened to his father and gotten a commission. Maybe all he should have done was continue his annual wanderings to Lupiac and helped raise that sweet little boy he cared so much for.

_Or maybe, I should just shoot myself and end my suffering_, he thought as bitter tears – ones filled with more pain than he'd shed when he'd sentenced his wife – streamed down his face in the spring rain of Gascony. He knelt in the mud before an old tree he remembered from happier days, his blue eyes staring at the charred and overgrown remains of what had been a farmhouse and barn.

The family was dead; killed by bandits who'd been bored during the late winter of the year Athos had gone to Paris rather than Gascony. The father had been shot. The mother, who had been pregnant with a second child, had also been shot. The home and barn had been burned down around them. At least, that was what he was told by an old widow as he'd come up to the charred destruction as the sun was setting.

The boy…he'd been carried off. No one in the village thought his fate fair but no one had been able to do anything either. The men who'd come through scared the people more than the King for they had killed anyone with a sword. Athos couldn't bring himself to search through the ashes and debris for anything to prove the villagers right or wrong, though, part of him feared proving them to be either.

He remained under the tree that night, the rain pounding onto him as he cried and screamed himself hoarse. Was this what Aramis had felt when he'd awoken to death and blood in Savoy? Was this what the elder Musketeers meant when they spoke of battle being worse than he could imagine?

He'd just hung his wife for god's sake and he was crying more over the loss of a boy he hadn't seen in twenty years than he had over her? It was the spooked horse all over again. Only, it was worse because he knew he'd never see the child again. This wasn't a lucky thing. This was a murder, an execution of an entire family.

Just because d'Artagnan had been carried off, didn't mean he was still alive. Athos knew of slave traders, of human trafficking, and of brothels that looked for people young and malleable. Also, if Athos remembered correctly, the boy had a mouth on him when he decided he disliked something or someone. Athos could remember d'Artagnan ripping into a bigger boy for pulling on a girl's hair. His stomach emptied itself into the mud at the thought of what would have happened if d'Artagnan were stupid enough to repeat the situation in the company of men who killed without blinking.

The rain continued to pound onto him as he rode into Paris, head bowed as he found his tears drying out. Athos' lip curled in a silent snarl as he thought of the possibilities of what could have befallen that child. He forced himself to swallow his anger – and ill thoughts – as he dismounted in the training yard of the Musketeers though. That sort of expression would not sit well with Tréville if he saw it while being asked for a reinstatement. And Athos needed something to do to keep himself busy and occupied.

He ignored Porthos and Aramis as they gawked at his soaked form when he stormed past them, up the stairs to Tréville's office. He all but slammed the door open, a startled Tréville almost dropping his reports. Athos knew he must look a right state but the reactions weren't helping him keep the anger – or the guilt – at bay.

"I can be taken off the reserves list now," he ground out.

Tréville stared for a moment before nodding at him, muttering about Athos would be the one seeing the seamstress himself as well as the smithy. As if Athos would have it any other way.

He turned to leave when Tréville told Athos he had the two perfect men to work with. Athos paused at the door, taking a deep breath before asking who he was to be partnered with. Tréville smirked at him and his stomach sank to the floor as the man spoke the names he knew well.

Porthos and Aramis.

Athos was truly curious what wrong turn he'd taken in life as he stumbled down the steps and into the warmth of the barracks. While he'd known the place to usually be full of men fresh from a mission or new recruits, he found it currently empty save for Aramis and Porthos who sat near the fire.

He stumbled over to them, eyes glazed at the very sight of a wine bottle between them. They watched him snatch it up and drain it in silence before asking if he wanted to sit. The barracks remained silent past the thudding of rain and the crackle of the fire. Athos found himself draining bottle after bottle ad Porthos and Aramis began to frown heavily at him.

"Woman troubles," Aramis said behind his mug. Porthos nodded with his eyes fixed on anything that wasn't Athos.

"A death," Porthos muttered into his cup, his voice echoing into it with a hollow quality.

"Definitely," Aramis murmured before he crossed himself, the fire gleaming against his mustache and goatee.

Athos frowned at the two, trying very hard to not notice how alike they were. They'd cut their facial hair the same way, held themselves like mirror images of each other, and even seemed to communicate within silence. Since he'd left fifteen years ago, they'd become like he had been with Thomas; near inseparable. It also reminded him of the non-bloodline brotherhood he'd had in Gascony which only made his stomach roll and his heart clench.

"Maybe I just wanted to drink," he snarled.

The two looked at him like they didn't really believe him but they didn't press. They simply continued to drink with him in companionable silence. As night drew close, they hauled him to a bed, pulling a bottle from his fingers as they shoved his head into a pillow and ordered him to sleep it off.

The following morning, he awoke to their dragging him from the bed and to a table, ordering him to eat. Porthos kept a firm hand on his shoulder when he tried to avoid the very sight of food while Aramis threatened to shove said food down his throat. They then dragged him to the smithy to have his sword evaluated and a few muskets, pistols, and knives as well as to the seamstress to have his uniform fitted.

Paris was as loud and crowded as he remembered. Tiny streets with looming buildings got smaller thanks to stalls lining the sides and people meandering about without clear purpose. His side was slammed into by children rushing past on occasion and he found himself checking his purse unconsciously. One girl in particular caught his eye as her fiery hair flashed past him as she called for someone to wait for her.

"So, uniform's been paid for," Aramis murmured as they wandered back into the barracks.

"Weapons purchased," Porthos affirmed as he dropped the weapons and the new belts onto the table in the training yard.

"It seems you're shaping back up just fine," Aramis stated.

Athos ignored the jab as he dug through the leather and metal to find buckles and holsters. He arranged the mess onto his waist with deft hands as Aramis and Porthos discussed someone called Radha and another person called Charlotte and if they were doing well. There was a mention of a boy but no name was given. There was a question as to his age from Aramis and Porthos confirmed twenty-five. Athos' fingers fumbled at the age, his thoughts turning dark again.

The redressing came to an abrupt halt when Tréville called at them all from his balcony. There was something for them to do, informants having left word with him or some such. Athos didn't care. He just wanted the distraction. Anything to stop wondering which turn he should have taken in life to have avoided his current heartache.

* * *

**Hope you all enjoyed the last of the building relationship chapters. Next will be when Athos is framed for highway robbery but keep killing the review, favorites, and follow buttons in the meantime.**


	8. Highway Robbers: Part 1

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**This begins the chapters that really spoil the episodes for those who haven't watched them yet. They will also take the longest to put together since I'm using this fic as an excuse to re-watch the show (because I really needed another distraction). And college is still an issue so...beware hiatus moments. I apologize now. Sorry for any possible delays.**

**I'm going to _try_ to upload a chapter every Sunday - like how the show updates on Sundays where I am - but again, life will probably eat me considering after this week, I have a test every single week until just before finals...Which will definitely kill me. So many apologies ahead of time.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 47**

**Porthos: 41**

**Aramis: 40**

**d'Artagnan: 30**

* * *

Rain pounded down onto the inn that sat in the middle of nowhere on the road towards Paris. A rider reined his horse through the mud, cloak plastered to his lean form as he urged his heavy footed animal on for the dryness of the barn ahead. While alone, the rider was not unarmed, a sword clicking against the horse's side as it marched through the mud. The sword had apparently been the only thing left that he could claim from his past besides the rider pulled the reins as he entered the small yard between the inn and the barn, eyelashes and dark bangs dripping from the rain.

He glanced between the door of the inn and the great barn door, deciding he should stable his horse first. He could untack it after he inquired about the room. It would make it so he'd only untack his mount once should he find there to be no rooms available but be able to sleep in the barn – if he managed to talk the innkeeper into such a notion. As little he had against sleeping on hard ground with only his saddle for a pillow, he would have liked a bed as well as a hot bath.

Paris may be only a few hours away but it would still be there in the morning.

He took his time dismounting and slipping the reins over the Friesian's large head that spoke of possible Percheron or Andalusian ancestry. Maybe even plow animal considering the small farming town he'd purchased it from. Lupiac had been as rustic and beautiful as he remembered. Gascony remained, for the most part, untroubled despite the presence of a rather rough man who stole tax money. The rider had not run into him though and hadn't felt it wise to remain near either; old memories stinging him to leave before such an occurrence could happen.

The mare rocked on her haunches as he led her to the barn, the rain turning into a hollow drum as they marched under the wood roofing. She huffed at him in clear appreciation as he led her to an empty stall and began to rub her down where he could. He loosened the girth of the saddle, unwilling to leave her without some room to breathe. He wasn't worried about the saddle slipping any more now that he wasn't mounted. Though he wasn't untacking her completely, he wasn't going to leave her uncomfortable either.

He slipped her some oats from his pack to the mare as he smoothed a hand over her velvety nose. He whispered at her for being a good girl, putting up with him and the weather for the last few days. He promised her that Paris was not far off and he'd make sure she got a good home. She gave a nicker as she bumped his shoulder with her nose. He was chuckling at her playful antics, having dealt with them all through his journey. He even took some time to check over his weaponry as he wandered around the mare to arrange the room.

Two men in cloaks and masks stood at the door as if too greet him. They didn't bother hiding the pistols on their belts and in their hands. Half the brims of their hats were pinned back by a metal Fleur-de-lis. The rider stared at the guns like he didn't understand their very presence as the men stalked towards him. He could hear other horses outside in the rain, men yelling out orders for money to be handed over as his brain slowly supplied he was about to be attacked.

He took it in stride though, seeing as attacks from unknown people wasn't something he was new to. He'd grown up with it in Paris and he could hold his own just fine. He just wished he didn't have the rain soaked cloak hindering his movements. He'd grown up with fights being what most would call unfair being damn near scheduled in between finding food and clothes. The rider was confident in his skills as the first fist sailed towards him.

The fight felt like it went forever, his sword flashing out at his attackers like a silver snake. That was the way of fights though. They always felt longer than they were, the thrill of scraping and scrounging for survival like a drug that slowed time itself.

It was ended when he managed to wrap one of the men's arms between his elbow and side, aiming the pistol at the second attacker. There was a flash followed by the rank smell of spent powder. The second man screamed for a second before his body collapsed to the floor. The rider knew the stillness of death by sight well enough that he could only swallow at its heavy presence.

The man whose arm he'd trapped had been tossed against the wall with all of the rider's strength, his hat toppling from his head as he stared at the sword in the young man's hand. The horses outside cried out as they were kicked forward and the rider watched as his last attacker ran from the barn. The rider cursed as he raced out into the rain to watch the man drag himself onto a horse and disappear with an entire troupe of men.

Frowning, he glanced to the open door of the inn. He didn't want to be in the rain anymore and after the fight, his horse wasn't going to be very patient with him about being rained on again. He may as well learn if anyone was harmed past the man he'd managed to shoot. Also, it'd be rude to leave the innkeeper with a body and no explanation.

A pudgy man wobbled into the doorway, eyes glaring off after the troupe. He cursed them, his hand throwing a sign at the road, and turned to head back in when he spotted the rider.

"Lord have mercy! You one of _them_?"

The rider shook his head, unwilling to speak to the man quite yet. He knew he was being rude but he disliked having to speak to people he didn't know. He pointed towards the stable, cocking his head in an invitation for the man to follow him.

"This your doing?" the man asked, pointing nervously at the body before his feet. The rider nodded, chin dipping behind the scarf he wore.

"They looked to kill me," he said. He'd known he'd have to speak sooner or later. It was only polite considering he would have had to speak to the innkeeper for a room. Though, he wasn't sure he particularly cared for the man before him. "I didn't take kindly to it."

The man nodded, a frown dragging at his lips as he shook his head at the body.

"Monsieur," the rider asked with a soft voice. "Did these men, by chance, give any notion as to who they were?"

"Hm? Oh, yes…they claimed to be of King's Musketeers they claimed," the man snarled out. The rider lifted a brow in interest. He couldn't think of a single Musketeer that would willingly commit highway robbery.

"Men like this can be over confident," the rider stated, eyes drifting over the old man before him. "The ones who attacked me here may not have given names but someone who tried for your money may have."

"The leader called himself…Athos, I believe," the man frowned.

_Athos? It_ can't _be_, the rider thought. Then he remembered that it was possibly not the same Athos he was thinking of that had done this. He may have only met one Athos out of many after all.

He glanced at the body, eyes bored into the shoulder guard the man wore. It bore the Fleur-de-lis of the Musketeers that he'd seen on Porthos and Aramis' shoulders after they'd gotten their commissions. It was such a strange image to behold on a dead man who'd tried to kill an innocent yet, there it was.

"Why so many questions?" the man asked.

"I'm on my way to Paris," the rider explained. "I have friends in a Regiment of the King…You may be called a witness if I report this to them."

"You'd report this absurdity?"

"I had to shoot a man," the rider shot back. "Of course I'll be reporting the name of his leader! It would only be right!"

The old man sighed, scratching his head in thought.

"That your nag?" he asked pointing at the huffing and still tacked horse.

"Indeed," the rider murmured, hiding his fist behind his cloak. The man was obviously blind if he thought the mare was a nag. Highway robbery aside, he was also being rude.

"May as well let you have a room seeing as you'll be doing me a bit of service," the man muttered. "May as well make some money tonight."

"If I haven't been robbed as well you mean?" the rider sneered as the man passed him.

"Ah…right," the man mumbled. He at least had the sense to sound abashed at being caught in his obliviousness. "Untack your horse and come and be fed."

"Much obliged," the rider grumbled. "I'll be in soon. My thanks to you."

The innkeeper waved at him as he stormed back out into the rain and his inn. The rider strode up to his horse, pulling her tack off her back and rubbing her down properly. She butted him with her nose, begging for more treats. He almost gave in when he thought better of spoiling her any further than he already had for the day.

"At ease, dear girl," he whispered. "One night free of oats won't harm you…"

She neighed, her hoof pawing at the ground. She threw her head towards the body and snorted.

"Ah…Right. I'll move him then." She nickered at him happily as he moved the body from the sightlines of his horse.

As he moved the body though, his thoughts wandered to the friends he'd mentioned. As clearly as he could see them in their Musketeer shoulder guards and leather over clothes, he couldn't see them – or any other Musketeer he'd encountered for that matter – committing highway robbery. He would not claim understanding all the complexities of human beings but of all he had seen of the King's Musketeers, he couldn't see any man wearing that Fleur-de-lis on his shoulder doing as these men were.

He patted the mare's shoulder once more before venturing to the inn for the night, muttering to himself as he went.

"Looks like my visit to the garrison is going to be going a bit differently that I planned."


	9. Highway Robbers: Part 2

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**Um...I have a test every single week for the next month and then finals...Which will definitely kill me. So many apologies ahead of time.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 47**

**Porthos: 41**

**Aramis: 40**

**d'Artagnan: 30**

* * *

There were mornings that really made Athos question why it was good to have a high tolerance for wine and spirits. His body being sore from his work was apparently not enough; his head had to pound along with it because he was too stupid to stop himself from drinking himself near to death every night.

Every morning was the same routine. He'd wake, peering into the depths of empty bottles if not finishing a bottle off completely, only to end up holding at the locket on his neck, the chain it was attached to always catching his attention as he moved. His thoughts would then darken with doubt that he'd been right in his decision. After five years, he still found himself thinking that he'd been wrong but due to his station and responsibilities, he'd had no choice. He dropped the locket, sighing again at his stupidity of still harboring feelings for that woman.

After dunking his head into the water bucket he'd pulled up through is window, clearing away any exhaustion and pain as he did, he went about stretching his limbs as he dressed, sword as a counterbalance. All his time as a full time Musketeer had filled his body with aches and pains he hadn't known he could have. He was three years from fifty as well which meant his body was protesting rather loudly every morning.

Once dressed, he marched through town, face hidden by the brim of his hat, in search of his companions. Tréville wished to speak to them; Athos had asked even though there was no need to. Tréville always wanted to speak to them due to their being his best and, oddly enough, the center of troublemaking. It was a safe bet that Tréville would wish to speak to his three best fighters.

He had a clear notion that at least Porthos would make being found easy on him. It was early which meant cards with the Red Guard who could only afford to drink the cheapest of wines that were only available at ungodly hours in the morning. One could not guard prisoners while too drunk after all, and many had shifts at night which only allowed early mornings for drinking away one's feelings.

_A rotten way to live_, Athos thought.

It wasn't the first time he'd thought as much of the Red Guard. Though, his current dealings with them weren't exactly helping him think of them any better than any Musketeer did. Red Guards were commissioned by and worked for the Cardinal. Musketeers were commissioned by and worked for the King. Musketeers were liable to actually pay the working women they saw, were known to be kinder to those around them, and were the better fighters.

The Red Guard were a cowardly lot too if the poor bastard Porthos was winning against showed anything near to a pattern. He'd lost the game and claimed Porthos to be a cheat as the man laughed his whooping laugh as twirling his mustache, thudding his gun onto the table as Athos walked past him.

"What's going on?" he queried in a soft yet cold voice.

He knew what was going on; it happened daily with Porthos. Best to act like he didn't know since he didn't particularly care. Porthos was a grown man who'd lived in Paris all his life. Porthos didn't need his help.

Porthos, still smiling widely at his current win breathed through his open mouth as he looked towards Athos. He was leaning back in his chair, over confident as always. He and Aramis were half the reason Athos wasn't dead from wine or battle yet. Athos wasn't sure if he fully appreciated the efforts; of if he ever would.

"Ah, Dujon and I were havin' a discussion about personal integrity," Porthos said, pointing to the Red Guard as he spoke. Athos listened intently as he wandered to the bar for a drink.

"You friend had the king up his sleeve," the Guard snarled through clenched teeth, raising his gun. Porthos managed to look appropriately abashed and horrified.

"Oh," he rumbled, nearly singing with delight. "That's slander."

He smirked at the man pointing a gun at him the way he did with anyone who aimed at him for cheating in a game. His goatee disappeared behind the leather scales of his tall collar as his eyes flashed at the obvious challenge. The smile disappeared as he stared at the man before him, the ring on his left ear gleaming in the low light.

"Tell him Athos."

Athos shed his hat, placing it on the bar. "Don't involve me in this," he grumbled. It was too early for this.

There was a screech from a chair being pushed back from someone standing up in a rather violent manner. Porthos made a noise that could only translate to being unsurprised but knowing what he should be saying in the situation. The only problem was that Porthos was probably trying to goad the man further.

"Shoot him and it's murder," Athos warned over his shoulder. It was far too early in the day for this nonsense.

He tried to ignore Porthos' finger tapping at his breast in invitation as the Guard asked who would care if there were one less Musketeer. He turned to the guard, suggesting a duel of chivalry and such. Codes of honor to be seen to and the like. He collected his hat and took up a post at a pillar behind where Porthos sat.

The guard boasted he was match for anyone in a fair fight. Athos wasn't all that surprised that it was accepted so stupidly, Porthos chuckling at the confidence of the man as he put on a glove. Athos really wasn't surprised when the Guard kicked Porthos' equipment from a chair and stood in his way, sword ready and claiming it was Porthos' problem to get to the fallen weapons.

_Cowards_, Athos concluded. _The whole damned lot._

Porthos slapped the blade away, dodging swings that were too wide and uncontrolled for a man to be calling himself trained. Athos let it slide for a few moments as people strayed out of the bar to avoid the flying stupidity of a duel.

"Attacking an unarmed opponent defies every principal of chivalry," he called, a laugh rumbling at the back of his throat.

Porthos picked up a fork from a nearby table, holding it up in question. Another smirk graced the muscle bound Musketeer's face. Athos bowed a nod, calling it close enough to pass. Their smiles were dangerously close to manic then, the Guard confused at the development. Porthos waved the fork in a circle, held it in front of his face, and called 'on guard' as he slipped an arm behind his back and bowed.

It was actually pathetic that Porthos was doing _better_ with the fork than the man was with a full length sword. Porthos dodged with cat-like swiftness and batted the blade away with the fork like he did such things every day. The large man even managed to get a wound onto the Guard's shoulder.

Athos, seeing that this could go on all day, took a drink from a nearby cup and began sorting himself together. He pulled his pistol from his belt, holding the muzzle in his hand. Porthos had caught the Guard's sword hand by the time Athos had a grip on his gun. The man punched his opponent and kicked him away. Athos slammed the butt of the pistol against the Guard's head. Porthos gave him a sad look of disappointment as the Guard fell silent on the floor.

"What happened to the code?"

"Oh," Athos groaned. "Who has time? Tréville wants to see us."

Porthos smiled and went to collect his winnings. Athos caught the mulatto man's wrist and turned it to find cards sticking out from under the fabric. He smirked.

"Porthos," he scolded, trying to smile over the pain of certain memories. He'd gotten used to Porthos' gambling and cheating at cards but there were moments he truly wished his friend lacked the talent of hiding cards up his sleeve.

Porthos sighed, his chin falling to his chest. "Yeah, I need to work on that."

Feeling as though there was enough of an acknowledgement in Porthos' voice, Athos decided to let it slip. It was then he realized that they were one man short.

"Where's Aramis?" he asked.

Porthos gave him a look that spoke a little too loudly.

"Tell me he's not that stupid," Athos smiled, his head falling back in silent laughter.

He should have known better than to ask. Aramis was rather smitten with Adele after all. The Spaniard was also smitten with courting disaster as a pastime. Porthos was the one who reeled his idiocy in – oddly enough – while Athos was the one who simply ignored it until it was a problem he couldn't ignore. Adele however, was the Cardinal's girl. It was a problem by nature.

As much of a problem as it was, though, it was too funny that they found Aramis hanging from the woman's window like a nearly caught thief.

They traveled back to the barracks in conversation after they'd managed to get Aramis down from the second story without killing him. They both gave the old suggestion Aramis find another woman. Anyone who wasn't Adele.

"Why not Adele?" Aramis whined.

"I don't know. Let's think; because she's the mistress of the most powerful man in France?" Porthos growled.

Aramis naturally proclaimed he loved her. As Porthos laughed, knowing far more history than Athos did and therefore finding the statement silly. Athos asked if Aramis loved _her_ or stealing from the Cardinal. They all shared a smile until Tréville called them all into his office.

There was the question on if they'd dueled a Red Guard. Athos, knowing they would have to lie, claimed they hadn't under the justification that it was illegal to do so. Besides, Tréville disliked the Red Guards as much as his men. Tréville seemed to see through it, though he only showed it by claiming he only wished to protect his men from the Cardinal. He couldn't do so if his men were fighting the Red Guard.

He then set about to business. Captain Cornet and his men had gone missing with important documents on their way to Shartra. King's Work was stated before they were sent off for the monastery to learn if Cornet made the meeting or not. They left silently. No need to anger their captain any further.

* * *

The rider wasn't exactly pleased as he stumbled through the street, a hand on his painful side.

He had found himself under the ever loving care of a landlady who wished all her commodities to be worth extra. All he'd wanted was a bed and dinner, no matter if dinner _was_ extra. Clean water and soap were extra as well, though, the communal towel was free. What was the point of paying extra to get clean when he'd have to dry off with someone else's filth?

Dinner had looked unappetizing – specialty of the house his foot – and the fact he'd managed to get himself into a duel before it was even placed in front of him had not helped matters. It was his own damned fault for opening his mouth to an unknown woman though. He shouldn't have bothered warning her clean water was extra but he couldn't have known the fat Spaniard with her was going to throw such a fuss. The rider knew opening his mouth brought him bad luck, yet he kept speaking.

The woman in question had later taken his pistol from his belt as she walked down the steps, her companion forgotten. She'd kissed him, her hands pressing his scarf to his skin as she pressed him to the door. The touch of warmed metal against his scar made him twitch away, words of apology spilling from his mouth. As much fun as he knew a tumble could be, he'd prefer to not scare this odd woman with his secrets. Never mind how confident she was with his pistol in her hands. He excused himself, slipping the gun from her fingers just as the door closed.

Being one to wake early, he'd awoken to a bloodied knife embedded in the opposite pillow. While things were quiet outside the room, he'd taken the knife and hidden it in a broken board he'd noticed before dinner. He then collected himself for the duel only to find himself throwing his body out the window of his room when the landlady blamed him for the disgraceful murder of his would-be opponent.

He'd bruised his ribs. He was sure of that much as he stumbled behind a pillar to hide. He'd lost his cloak but nothing else and that was something. He had enough time to spot one of his pursuers before he was pulling a young woman to his side, promising to pay her, and pressing his lips to hers. The landlady rushed by with a crowd and he felt himself relax away from the woman.

"That actually worked?" he laughed just before the woman pounded her tiny fist into his side. Right on his bruised ribs. There was a short blade in his face as he groaned for air.

_I vow to never speak again unless it is truly needed_, he thought bitterly as the woman yelled at him. In all honesty, he couldn't really think past the pain so he could only stumble out replies and apologies before he collapsed.

When he came to, he was in the woman, Constance Bonacieux's home. She was married apparently, her asking to be called Madame only driving home a point that he'd made a fool of himself as well as her. He apologized again, claiming he had to be somewhere. He had people to speak to.

Constance ended up 'showing' him to the Musketeer garrison, claiming him to be from out of town and therefore wouldn't know the way. If only she knew.

"Who're you even looking for?" she asked as they passed through the archway of the garrison gate. His eyes wandered to the three men striding to a set of stairs before them, overjoyed to recognize his friends among them.

"Thank you Madame," he said before puffing up his chest to call to the two men he knew – and loved as brothers. "Porthos! Aramis!"

The three men before them paused midstride, all turning on their heels to gaze at him. It took a moment before Aramis beamed at him, raising his arms in invitation for a hug.

"d'Art!" Porthos called as the young man leapt to take the hug. He clapped a large hand onto the rider's lower back where he could manage to find room despite Aramis' arms being in the way.

"What're you _doing_ here?" Aramis asked, a large smile on his face as he pulled away. His hands remained on the young man's shoulders as Aramis looked him over. "You look positively dreadful, Lad. What've you gotten into lately?"

"Typical things," Porthos laughed, shoving his fist against Aramis' shoulder. "Right d'Art?"

"Naturally," the olive skinned man stated, tossing dark bangs away from his brow with a toss of his head. "And…I've got a reason to be here too."

"Oh my," Aramis chuckled. "You sound serious. This must be something important."

"Stop smiling then," was the snapped reply.

"Easy Lad, he's joking with you," Porthos chided, a hand rocking the younger man's head back and forth as he ruffled hair. "We're fresh from a rather rough ride. Be nice."

"I believe you were asked as to your presence, Boy," the third man said. While the no-nonsense attitude was a welcome tone to hear past Aramis and Porthos' antics, it wasn't welcome at the moment.

"I'm looking for a man named Athos," he growled.

The man lifted a brow. "You've found him," he said, his once wounded lips playing at an anticipating frown. Porthos and Aramis shared the same expression as Athos.

"What's wrong d'Art?" Porthos asked, pulling him away from the other man as Aramis slid to stand in front of Athos.

"His name is involved in highway robberies that have left people dead," d'Art explained, his eyes never leaving the man before Aramis. Porthos stared at him in confusion.

"Must be a mistake," Aramis said as his hand rose to press against Athos' chest.

His face was twisted in disbelief much like Porthos' was but there was a fear hidden there as well. The young man wasn't surprised at the sight. Aramis had taught him to shoot as Porthos had taught him to grapple. Both men knew what he was capable of.

However, it wasn't their presence that stopped him from making a challenge. It was Athos'. Looking past the beard, the healed cut on the man's upper lip, and the worn look in his entire body, d'Art knew this man. His hands itched to hold the trinket that hid under his jacket and shirt as he gazed at Athos in confusion.

How? How could this be? After all this time, he thought. Why you?

"Get out of my way Aramis," Athos snarled. "He's insulted me. I apologize if I kill him."

"Stop fighting! All of you!" Constance screamed, leaping between the pairs of squabbling men. "If men would only _think_ rather than fight! There'd be more good ones left."

"She is right Athos," Porthos insisted as he tucked d'Art behind himself and held a supplicating hand up at his friend who was still trying to get past Aramis.

"What's going on?" a new voice called.

"Tréville," Aramis breathed out gratefully. "Athos stop!"

"I asked a question!" Tréville yelled.

"That boy has made an accusation against me," Athos growled, pointing at d'Artagnan.

Tréville glanced towards him with a sympathetic look. Porthos was explaining the upbringing he shared with d'Art while Aramis was shouting its truth, rushing to d'Art's other side as he did. Tréville held up a hand before looking at d'Art once more. The young man blinked before bowing his head in respect.

"Your name," Tréville commanded in a gentle manner.

"Yes," Athos snarled. "I prefer to know the names of the people I kill."

"Athos!" Porthos and Aramis bellowed. Tréville frowned at the man.

"What's he claimed against you then?"

"That I'm involved in highway robbery and murder!"

The frown deepened and d'Art could feel his heart clenching at the action. He was only becoming a witness. A witness that would end a friend's life if he wasn't careful.

"It's not true," Porthos breathed.

"I've already promised full cooperation," Tréville muttered. "Unless you three can tell me you found Cornet."

He sounded desperate and he looked near to tears when the three could only look at the ground, admitting aloud they had not found him. Two men with helmets stepped up as Athos handed Tréville his sword with a numb movement. As he was led away, Porthos and Aramis turned to d'Art again.

"Lad," Tréville said before the two could start. "What do you know?"

"They wore masks," he admitted. "The innkeeper claimed one had called himself Athos of the King's Musketeers."

"They must have been lying," Porthos hissed to Tréville. "Let us search Captain. _Please_!"

"There's too much evidence," Tréville said weakly, his eyes watering. "All we can do is go to the proceedings."

* * *

Porthos stormed from the court room, muttering curses at the Cardinal and his treatment of Athos. He knew Tréville had tried to gain favor as the witnesses could only claim a name and similar uniform being worn but not that they knew Athos' face. The innkeeper claimed the death of a guest by a man claiming to be Athos. The young driver claimed the uniform similar. Athos had called that he'd never seen the innkeeper, that there was no truth to the accusations.

Yet, d'Art had even claimed it and Porthos had not known him to lie to friends. Tréville had only been able to tell him that Cornet had to be found or Athos would be executed.

He'd stopped short as the thought of d'Art spun to the surface. He'd come in with Madame Bonacieux, his face a bit pale looking. Was it possible the boy had fallen ill and Constance was caring for him? Porthos took the chance and barged into her husband's home, Aramis right behind him. There, in the dining room stood not only Constance but also her husband. D'Art was sitting at the table, pulling his shirt down over a bandaged torso, his eyes distant and troubled.

A surge of protective instincts Porthos hadn't felt since he'd been in the Court rose up for a moment at the sight. He made himself focus on Athos though. He had to help his friend and all he could hope was d'Art had been wrong.

"d'Art," he whispered. "We need to talk."

"Yes," Aramis insisted. "Athos didn't do these things. No Musketeer would."

"What do you know? You must tell us," Porthos pressed.

Aramis' roundabout way would take too long to answers. They didn't have the time. They had to help their friend. As much as it pained him to lay into d'Artagnan when he was injured – or even with an expression like he'd seen a ghost – Porthos needed to help Athos. He cared for the man just as much as he cared for Aramis and d'Art after all.

"You were attacked yes?" Aramis asked. "Would you recognize them if you were to see them again?"

Porthos kept himself from smiling. There were moments Aramis surprised him still, despite how many years they'd been working together.

"They all wore masks," the young man mumbled, his words almost slurred as he spoke.

Porthos knew that tone. It was the one d'Art used when trying to remember his family or when he'd looked at his trinket for too many hours. He pressed his fist against the table instead of reaching to hug the boy he'd taken as a brother without meaning to. As much as that voice cut him to the bone, the fact that even d'Art was as unhelpful as the witnesses left his stomach turning. He heard Aramis sigh in defeat.

"I shot one of them," d'Art said. "The body may still be there at the inn."

There was hope yet.


	10. Highway Robbers: Part 3

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'm gonna give you all another chapter today since I have a test every single week for the next month, a week off, and then finals...Basically, I'm being mean/nice to you depending on how you see things since I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance right now.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 47**

**Porthos: 41**

**Aramis: 40**

**d'Artagnan: 30**

* * *

"Alright," Aramis muttered as they waited for d'Art to finish speaking to the innkeeper.

The man was really yelling at the boy, angry at him for bringing Musketeers before him. The young man had shot back that he'd never given what Regiment his two friends were in and so the innkeeper was to shut up and help them. Either that or face the guilt of causing an innocent man's death.

"What?" Porthos hissed.

"I know I taught him to shoot," Aramis admitted.

"So? I taught him to grapple."

"Who taught him to ride?" There was a pause as Porthos thought back to the journey to the inn.

"He does have an oddly good seat doesn't he?"

"Aramis," d'Art called. "It's still here."

"Lead the way," Porthos said, his voice urgent. They had only until morning to get a pardon though so it was ignored.

The grave was shallow, which left Aramis frowning more than he already had been. Now, if only the man in it was someone he knew, he may have cared more. Porthos was quick to point out the man wasn't a Musketeer but it was d'Art's observation that he'd only shot the man once that made them all uneasy. Two holes in his clothes but was only shot once? Porthos clambered into the grave, finding the hole over the man's right breast matched no wound. Cornet's troupe had disappeared, he remembered as he mentioned what this turn meant. The uniform had been taken from a dead man.

Another hour or so of riding brought them to the road Cornet and his men would have taken. The most narrowed off section of road left little doubt of a possible ambush. The crows led them to the bodies that had been left without regard in the melting snow. Porthos roared at the treatment while Aramis turned a sympathetic eye to their young friend.

"d'Artagnan, you couldn't have known," he soothed as the young man pressed his face to the large black horse they'd secured for him.

"I know Musketeers," he mumbled past tears. "I knew…I doubted the allegation but…"

"You're helping set things right. That's all that will matter later on."

"Look at this!" Porthos cried, holding a coin up for them to see. The tail of the scarf over his hair slid from his shoulder as he turned for d'Artagnan to see the coin of Spanish make.

"You can go a year in Paris without seeing a Spanish doubloon," he continued as he dug in his coin purse to produce another doubloon of the same make in his hand. "That makes two…in a _week_."

"Where did you get that?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I won it," Porthos ground out, "in a card game with a Red Guard."

* * *

Aramis was a bit surprised d'Artagnan only stood to the side as they threatened Dujon with bodily harm. He didn't say anything when Aramis brought out the long barreled musket claiming to be pretty good with it. He was even silent at Porthos corrected the modesty. Aramis was the best with the muskets. Porthos was the best with hand-to-hand. Athos was the best with the blades. Everyone knew this of the three.

It began to worry Aramis when he was rattling off how he could miss as often as he hit from a hundred yards but rarely missed from fifty and still no word from the young man. He was quiet at the unveiled threat of which organ he should choose to hit first at ten yards, he and Porthos settling on the stomach because of the hours of bleeding to death. He was quiet for the promise of not telling it was murder if Dujon remained silent.

He was almost glad when Porthos had to gently guide the boy away from Dujon when the man started talking. D'Artagnan, not taking being attacked all that well, had asked who'd ordered the robberies, a hand gripping at Dujon's hair and his face in the other man's space.

They released Dujon after he'd led them to the ruins, trying to come up with a plan to get inside when they'd run into Constance. She was a fine thing she was; even if d'Art was bold enough to reminded Aramis she was married despite the entire idea being his.

The woman proved herself capable as she distracted the guard, though Aramis was a bit horrified by her being alright with only ten sou. Now, if d'Art weren't so god damned fast on his feet and as reckless as Athos was when he felt invincible. What had been something requiring surprise had gone into an all-out fight. He and Porthos ended up killing most of the men when d'Artagnan reappeared fighting the Red Guard captain they were after.

_Who taught you to use a blade_, Aramis wondered in horror as he watched the young man slash and hack his way through the guard's defense. It wasn't pretty but it was effective and showed far too much potential to be comforting. He had to yell when, after securing the captain's sword, d'Artagnan nearly took the man's head off.

"We need him alive," he said only to later wish he'd let the boy kill the bastard in the first place.

A hidden knife and an opportunity. That was all it was but the sight of someone trying to stab d'Artagnan in the back had frightened him. He'd known this boy for years now. He'd watched him grow and had taught him. He'd watched the boy keep up with Porthos in the little sparing sessions they'd shared together. The knowledge that d'Artagnan was quick enough to catch the man's arm and slide his sword into his attacker's stomach was almost comforting.

He ignored d'Art put his short cloak over Constance's shoulders before leading her away with whispered words. Instead, he helped Porthos sort through the stolen uniforms, smiling at the break. Even with their main target dead, the uniforms and Dujon's confession would be enough for a pardon.

* * *

Athos wanted to drink himself to death.

No matter how glad he was that his friends had stopped his execution, he was still annoyed that he hadn't been able to feel death. It may not wipe him of guilt as the priest suggested without his confessions out but he knew he'd finally have some peace.

He'd even yelled for them to shoot. He'd joked it off, telling them he thought he'd finally shaken the two idiots – his brothers – off. He'd been amazed that their shared friend, one they hadn't told him of, had come along with them. After claiming him to have committed a wrong, the boy still helped clear him? Also, why had the boy looked so hurt when he'd looked at him after he'd revealed himself?

He listened to the three talk, joking about irony, and explaining what they knew of his 'woman troubles' to the boy, as well as how the boy had his eyes for a woman he'd met all of once. Aramis left at one point, Porthos and the boy beginning a game of cards. Athos tried to content himself with staring at the locket about his neck and praying she had found her peace. He tried ignore Porthos asking the boy if he was alright, that he'd looked like he'd seen a ghost. He noted the boy wave the questions off though it didn't look like his heart was in it.

He was stumbling home, knowing dimly that Porthos was following, when he noticed that the boy was turning down a corner ahead of him, a girl holding his hand. He was a bit jealous of that girl, though he didn't know why. He stumbled further on until giggles caught his attention.

"Charlotte, it's not _that_ funny," the boy's voice, ragged from what had to be lack of use, chimed in the dark.

"Oh but it is!" the girl, a small blonde haired creature with breath taking blue eyes that glowed amber in the torchlight. "To think, you go to Lupiac only to come home and help Porthos stop imposters discredit the Musketeers!"

She broke into another fit of giggles as Porthos slid up to Athos' side. The boy smiled ruefully at her, a hand catching her wrist as she patted his shoulder with weakening strength.

"That's Charlotte," Porthos whispered. "She's the same age as him. He used to never talk to her though…to shy with others."

"Shy? Nothing about that boy is shy," Athos muttered.

"You're a strange case," Porthos muttered, scratching his neck. "I think since he was talking to Aramis and I when you spoke to him made it easier…He usually doesn't talk to people outside of his closest friends."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He does the polite stuff like asking the cost of room and such but that's a rare thing indeed," Porthos admitted. He frowned then. "I'm real surprised he even questioned Dujon with us. Actually asked the bastard a question while getting in his face about it."

"Why? He was helping his friends help one of their own. It makes sense to me."

"You don't know d'Artagnan though, now do you?"

Athos blinked. He'd heard wrong. He must have. There was no way…

"Come on then," Porthos said as the boy and Charlotte disappeared down the alleyway, laughing as they went. "Let's get you home."

"Right…Home…"


	11. Sleight of Hand: Part 1

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**I'm now formally introducing Rahda and Charlotte who run information with d'Art. I still have yet to rewatch Commodities but I'm working on it...Damned exams.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 47**

**Porthos: 41**

**Aramis: 40**

**d'Artagnan: 30**

* * *

Radha and Charlotte had known each other for near eight years. Having grown up in the Court of Miracles and on the streets, both girls knew their way around the city and how to handle a knife. Both weren't exactly sure if their thirties were going to be any more interesting than their twenties but they were sure going to try to make them so.

Charlotte, the passive one of the two, preferred to keep herself out of trouble and stuck to the shadows where she could. She was light on her feet and had nimble fingers. In the Court, her ability to lift food was envied and praised. She was humble about it though, knowing what boasting would get her once she stopped being seen as a child.

Radha, being full blooded Irish and fully aware that her red hair could practically glow in a dark alley, was a bit more forward in her actions. Like Charlotte, she too had nimble fingers and was quick on her feet. She had sharp eyes that could smell mischief and danger miles off. She was also one of the best at finding information.

"d'Art!" Charlotte called from her seat in the dark pub, her braids swinging as she waved at the young man she'd known for near twenty-five years.

He smiled at them both as he gave his own small wave. When he settled himself into a seat, Charlotte latched herself to his arm. She ignored the press of the weaponry on his belts against her side in favor of familiar contact. She'd known of this boy since the old Father had come screaming into the Court, bellowing for Porthos, Charon, and Flea to be found. Those three had been the eldest children at them time and most adept at dealing with injuries. It had taken three years to get him to talk to her, and part of her knew it was mostly because Porthos had left and d'Artagnan was tired of Flea and Charon's hovering.

Radha stood to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, like a sister who'd missed her brother. She may have only known him since he was nine but there was a shared bond between them that she treasured. He'd lost his family like she had, but where she only had questions, he knew and it saddened her that he did. She and Charlotte had been friends for a year prior to her meeting d'Artagnan and had met the boy through the blonde girl's influence. She'd taken to him almost immediately, even though he'd been silent around them both for a few months.

The three of them were currently the eldest of the children in the Court, most of the others either grown out of the title or dead for one reason or another. Some had been amazingly stupid and gotten themselves arrested or some were _really_ stupid and pissed off the wrong people. Their little trio, however, had followed an unspoken code that they'd avoid Red Guard, help those in need, and stay out of too much trouble.

"Anything new for me to worry about since I left?" d'Artagnan asked as he tucked into the hearty breakfast the girls had ordered for him. He was handicapped still thanks to Charlotte's refusal to release his arm but at least it wasn't his dominant one. Also, the food wasn't too difficult to manage with only a fork.

"You were gone two years d'Art," Radha snickered, her chin on her interweaved fingers. Her palms were faced towards the table her elbows sat on and her mess of curls she called hair tumbled over her shoulders and into her face.

"So?" he asked around his food, his face the definition of incredulous.

"So," Charlotte sang with a laugh, "you've managed to miss a good bit."

"For instance," Radha whispered, her body suddenly spanning the small table so she could cup her hand to his ear. "There's a man, Vadim he's called, who has stolen gun powder."

"No clear intention yet," Charlotte whispered in his other ear. "But, he _has_ been convicted of stealing from the King himself."

"Sounds an interesting man," d'Artagnan chuckled as Radha slipped into a seat on his right.

"Not the point," Charlotte said.

"What is then?"

"The Musketeers have been tasked to learn where that powder is as well as what Vadim plans to do with it," Radha hissed, a sneer wrinkling her nose as she spoke.

"Ah," he hummed, tapping his fork against the metal plate.

His brow was furrowed in thought as he considered the implications of such a mission. Tréville was no idiot so he would likely choose his best men to handle this particular mess. The Captain of the Musketeers would also know that Vadim wasn't going to simply talk to his men. Vadim wouldn't have gotten where he was if there weren't a bit of cleverness involved.

"They'll need someone who's not a Musketeer to talk to Vadim," he concluded. The girls gave him questioning looks.

"d'Art," Charlotte whispered, her blue eyes sparking with fear. "We're information dealers. We hand information over and leave."

"Right," Radha hissed, her own green eyes flashing with a protective light he'd known for years.

"The Captain will likely put his three best men on this," he reasoned with a calm voice. "That'll mean Porthos and Aramis."

"The two men you've been meeting with in the evenings?" Radha asked.

Of course she'd know of that arrangement. It wasn't as if he hadn't noticed her following him that one night a few years ago. He'd _let_ her follow him so she would know he was safe and not getting himself in a worrisome situation.

"I realize you and Porthos were very close but you know how Charon felt about him joining the Musketeers," Charlotte murmured.

"And you both know how little I care about Charon's _feelings_," d'Artagnan muttered.

"Ah yes," Radha sighed. "You and your hunches."

"When have they been wrong?" he asked.

The girl pushed her hair out of her face as she leaned back in the chair. The wood creaked as she moved but showed no sign of breaking. She sighed and nodded in understanding.

"So," she asked. "You've got some sort of plan right?"

D'Artagnan smiled. "Do you think you have a paint that will match my skin?"


	12. Sleight of Hand: Part 2

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**I re-watched Commodities and...I don't think anyone will like those chapters but we'll get there.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 47**

**Porthos: 41**

**Aramis: 40**

**d'Artagnan: 30**

* * *

Weeks of normalcy passed before Athos ever heard of Vadim.

Well, it wasn't all normal. The boy Aramis and Porthos had kept from his knowledge would arrive occasionally with his weapons and the three would spar together. Athos had ended up joining in when Porthos suggested d'Art learn swords from Athos himself. There was a bout of Aramis and Porthos raving about what a master Athos was while the boy scuffed the soles of his boots in the mud, avoiding Athos' gaze.

The boy had raw talent in every aspect. He may not able to shoot blind like Aramis but he could still shoot well. He wasn't as big and muscled as Porthos but he was just as fast – if not faster. His swordsmanship wasn't too bad, simply lacking in proper training and practice that Athos doubted he could have gotten in his current situation.

The weeks also drew in the random chancing upon the boy on the streets while they ran patrols. He would usually be alone, claiming he was trying to repay Constance for her help, but there were times he wasn't. Charlotte and another girl – Irish decent most likely if her red hair were any indication – would sit on barrels not far off, giggling together as they watched d'Art speak to the three men. Porthos would joke back at them occasionally but it was apparent he was being kind in his jests. Aramis was Aramis as always, winking and tipping his hat at the girls until the boy swatted him.

Athos had also become aware that the young man was staying at Constance's husband's home. How the boy was renting the room without proper income was beyond him though. All he ever saw the boy doing was speaking with the two girls, running errands for Constance, and sparing with Aramis and Porthos – winning the attentions of the other Musketeers and Tréville.

Of course, it didn't help that the boy had also gained the attentions of the Red Guards. All his time spent around the Garrison had led to the Guards treating him like he was a Musketeer recruit; hatefully. Like any other Musketeer, the boy was met with snide comments and glares as well as outright insults. There had been a moment when the tail of Porthos' scarf being caught by Aramis as the Spaniard spoke to d'Art and Athos was the only thing that had saved a rather loud Red Guard from a slow and painful death.

Yet, here the four of them stood, talking the boy through how he should fight a Red Guard and assuring him that the plan was sound and he'd be perfectly safe in the Bastille. They just needed someone to make friends with Vadim, learn where the gunpowder he'd stored was hidden, and find it.

Tréville had not told them who'd supplied the information on Vadim – or who had suggested the plan they were now tasked with – but Athos had seen the pointed look he'd sent in d'Art's general direction. D'Art was the only person who wasn't a fully commissioned Musketeer but connected enough for the plan to have a chance of success.

Athos had listened to Porthos and Aramis asking what was vital in a duel. When the boy said it was honor, Porthos had smacked the back of his head and muttered it was to not get killed. The mumbled he'd been raised to be a gentleman, a lit in his voice that made Athos raise a brow to question the truth of that statement. Aramis had asked if he'd been raised to die young which ended with a chuckle from the boy.

Athos had only been listening because, when they'd been walking to the duel, Porthos had asked if the boy had left a chain somewhere safe seeing as the guard would strip him of possessions. D'Art had assured Porthos that he'd left it, and the scarf, on trustworthy hands. That was about the time Aramis' face went pale and he'd started stammering while pointing at the boy's neck. Athos saw nothing wrong with the limb though when the boy lifted his chin with a smug smirk.

"You don't have to do this," Athos had said before the duel, his back to the Red Guard as he whispered to the boy. "It's Musketeer business."

He wasn't worried though, he assured himself of that. This boy did not, in any way, shape, or form, remind him of a boy with smiles of sunshine in Lupiac. This boy did not cause sparks of jealousy towards men he saw as friends because they had better relations with said boy than he did. This boy did not laugh the same blossoming laugh, have the same colored skin and hair, or have a warm touch that reminded Athos of hugs that could cradle his soul and heart in warmth.

This boy was a young man who'd lived – and was still living and surviving – the life Porthos had managed to escape decades ago. The boy was strong of will and of heart which only made his skills stand out all the more. His skills weren't to be sneezed at even if he weren't filled to the brim with youthful vigor seeing as he could keep up with two of the Musketeers' best – three if he really counted blade work but he didn't; yet.

He wasn't worried at all. Worry wasn't even factoring into this conversation. At all. No.

D'Art shrugged him off in a manner that could really only be read as polite and rather…pointed as he claimed he could handle it. There really wasn't that much choice in the matter after all. This was necessary.

Athos just wished the opponent wasn't so damned enthusiastic about attacking someone who was only _associated_ with the Musketeer regiment. He also wished Vadim had chosen warmer weather to hatch this mysterious plot of his. Though, it was a bit entertaining to see what Porthos claimed to have taught the boy, Aramis' knowing smiles aside.

It was not entertaining, however, when they had to leave the boy to the Red Guard. He didn't really care for this part of the plan, no matter how important it was.

They went through the scolding from Tréville about how they weren't to be caught in illegal dueling and yet had allowed a possible new recruit do so. Athos felt it strange that d'Art had not told even Tréville his real name when it was fairly obvious that the man held some form of his trust. Porthos had mentioned trust issues once during the first week of the boy appearing before the garrison gates with shining smiles but Athos had seen the boy speaking – whispering really – to Tréville when no one was around.

He ignored Aramis and Porthos' mumbles about being popular versus being unpopular, the larger man's scared brow twitching when the Captain got in their faces about leaving a young man friendless, alone, and condemned. He had other things to be worried over.

Tréville updated them after the rest of the regiment had left, sounding tired and worn out from the charade he'd known of but was still surprised by. Aramis made a point of whining about the other men hating them only to be shot down by Porthos who stated the obvious reason as to why. It looked like they'd betrayed a friend, one who had wormed his way into the regiment with barely any effort. Porthos muttered about feeling sick about such thoughts from fellows but Athos could hear a protective growl behind it.

Tréville continued on about the brilliance of the idea until Athos muttered that the raw talent of a kid from the streets didn't mean much; no matter how promising he seemed. Tréville mentioned the boy would have had to prove himself one way or another. Athos wasn't exactly pleased to note how his stomach rolled at the idea that the boy was risking execution to help men he barely knew though. Noble cause and supreme need aside, the boy had all of two men in the regiment who could vouch for him and both had just helped in a charade to have him arrested.

All to have him be put in a cell with a man who had enough gun powder for a small war hiding in the city somewhere. That was all without mentioning the men Vadim would have under his beck and call.

Athos could barely wait to be on the Queen's protection detail when she went to free some few souls she could later. He'd be able to make sure they hadn't just sent a young man to his death far too early in life.

* * *

"How'd you do that?" d'Artagnan asked after Vadim made a coin disappear from his fingers.

He'd seen magic tricks before but always from a distance. Flea and Charon had been rather clear in what they thought of the magicians in and out of the Court. He, Charlotte, and Radha had made it a habit to watch the spectacles from a distance though. Anything to annoy without getting into any real trouble.

"A secret to a good trick," Vadim stated, with a smile on his face, "make people look the wrong way." He produced the coin in his other hand as he spoke, leaving d'Artagnan a bit impressed.

Though, d'Artagnan had a feeling Vadim would probably have nothing on Radha's ability to get a man's purse off his belt while he stared at it. Hell, Charlotte could probably lift more bread out from under the Mademoiselle Cherie's nose than Vadim could. He didn't say anything about them though. No point in giving too much of his background away after all.

He didn't eat the food. After his last run in with bad food, he kept his mouth shut on the dead mouse in his bowl. He set the dish aside when the guard left, his nose wrinkled in disgust. He knew Vadim was watching him as he pushed the bowl away.

"You'll starve if you're not careful," Vadim hissed.

"I don't eat mice."

"Shame," Vadim muttered as he stirred his broth.

D'Artagnan watched him, eyes cool and calm as the man began to eat in silence. He couldn't see the man as someone who would steal so much gun powder but he could see Vadim as a thief. If he tried, he could see a desperate thief but not much else.

He settled into his corner and waited. It was Good Friday. The Queen would be here soon, a band of Musketeers with her. He could wait.

* * *

Aramis was beginning to think he hadn't prayed enough the day before for the success of this mission as he held the Queen's head to his chest.

Before they had gone onto the Queen's guard detail, they had run into Constance, who was waiting as her husband spoke to Tréville about cloth for a new cape. She was dressed as prettily as ever but damn did she have an arm on her. His cheek was still stinging. He and Porthos had shared a laugh that he loved violence in a woman but from the looks they shared later on told Aramis the try to lighten their moods hadn't lasted.

Athos had been the first to say he would visit the cell d'Artagnan was being held in which – of course – led to his finding the prisoners were escaping. He'd had to knock at least one prisoner out so he could help Athos free himself from three prisoners as well as shoot quite a few more people than he would have liked for the day. He may be a soldier but killing was something he took very seriously.

And during all of that, Vadim, his men, and d'Artagnan had snuck around the crowd of prisoners. Vadim had taken the Queen hostage, d'Artagnan behind him with a dangerously calm look in his eyes ad Vadim bellowed at them to back away. When Vadim yelled for the gate to open, it was d'Art who nodded with a confidence Aramis wasn't aware he held.

"I told you they'd let me walk out of here," Vadim had said with a smug smile.

"Hurt the Queen and we're all dead," d'Artagnan had hissed. "Let her go. You don't need her anymore. Let's go."

Vadim had apologized to the Queen, releasing her with a shove, and rushed out the gates. Tréville had called for them to shoot but the Queen, too dazed and frightened, was still between them and their targets. Aramis had acted on instinct, rushing to her side and dragging her to the ground, lying over her body as men trampled around them.

"You still think d'Art was the right man for the job?" he heard Athos growl as he lifted his head.

Once he was sure it was safe, he gazed down to the queen. He assured her things were fine, that she was safe, ignoring the pang in his chest as memories of Adele surfaced. Adele was gone, had made her choice. He had to leave it alone.

He apologized to her, realizing the gods awful position he'd just put her in. Not only had he bodily tackled her, he'd lain over her without permission. It shocked him when she noticed a cut on his cheek once he'd helped her to her feet, her hand gentle on his jaw as she aimed to inspect it. That was what she was worried over? Not the riot, near kidnapping, or the fact that a Musketeer had shoved her to the ground like she wasn't of royal blood?

As much as he appreciated it, he was beginning to worry over his sanity.


	13. Sleight of Hand: Part 3

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**I wish to also point out a source of inspiration for tiny things the boys do here: .com is an amazing artist and her/his fanart is wonderful and I have far too much respect for him/her so I want to point that out.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 47**

**Porthos: 41**

**Aramis: 40**

**d'Artagnan: 30**

* * *

The clanging of a hammer on metal made d'Artagnan twitch. He was aware of the cuffs on his wrists as well as those on Vadim's but he found himself nervous at the idea of the man being well and truly loose.

"My friend Felix thinks I was wrong to bring you," Vadim crooned, his rumbling voice almost a soothing sound.

If only d'Artagnan didn't know he was a criminal that Charon would probably have gutted on sight.

"He doesn't like strangers," Vadim claimed as the last cuff was hammered off his wrist. "Especially not ones that associate with Musketeers."

Felix continued to glare at d'Artagnan as if to prove Vadim's statement true. D'Artagnan wondered where they'd heard such tales from in such a short time. He stopped when remembered that he wasn't the only person in charge of running information. He didn't have time to wonder who these men were speaking to though. He had a job to do first.

"I'm not a Musketeer," D'Artagnan said as he clanked the cuffs together. "I'm a wanted man on the run with nothing to his name."

"Let me suggest another possibility," Vadim said as he carried the stool they had been using as a balance point and the hammer over.

He sat before d'Artagnan, a smile on his face. He took d'Artagnan's wrist in a gentle hold, the rail spike in his hands only becoming more threatening when he yanked the boy's arm taut, pressing the spike to his knuckle. Felix looped his arm around d'Artagnan's neck, his other hand holding the young man's head firmly.

_Fuck_, d'Artagnan thought.

"We're going to play a little game," Vadim hissed. "I'm going to hack your fingers off, one at a time, until you admit to being a spy."

"And what if I'm not?"

"Then you'll be counting on your toes. But you'll be alive."

"C'mon Vadim," Felix hissed over d'Artagnan's head. "_Cut_ him!"

The spike remained on the base of d'Artagnan's right pinkie as he and Vadim glared at each other for a long, arduous minute. A clang of metal against metal was the only thing that brought air back to d'Artagnan's lungs.

"We can trust him," Vadim determined. "I know a man's character by looking into his eyes. I'm never wrong."

He hammered the other cuff off as Felix released the boy's head. There was a swift argument from Felix's jilted accent that was shot down by Vadim's assurances to d'Artagnan of Felix's lacking in smarts. The man welcomed him to his so-called enterprise, claiming he was going to build a New France by killing the King and Queen. He spoke loftily of freeing the poor and dispossessed but d'Artagnan could only stare at the warehouse he'd been brought to in confusion.

There was something he was missing. Just what the hell was it?

* * *

Athos wasn't pleased at the current state he found himself in. He was worried over a boy he'd met through a case of mistaken identity, been accused of murder by, and had been cleared by all in the course of a less than a day. The weeks prior hadn't shed any further light on the boy either. All Athos knew for certain was that the boy knew Porthos due to a shared background, knew Aramis due to knowing Porthos, that he was housing himself at the Bonacieux household, and that he had two female friends who appeared on occasion.

Well, he knew the boy seemed to like being around the garrison. He knew the boy spoke to Tréville in private on occasion as well. He also knew that the boy seemed bent on becoming a Musketeer if Porthos and Aramis' shouts of joy not four days ago said anything.

However, Athos found himself scared for the young man despite himself. The situation with Vadim, what with the Red Guard being ordered to shoot the man and anyone with him on sight, was a task he wouldn't wish on anyone in the regiment. Especially not someone who was only a recruit – if d'Art could even be called that.

Aramis' arriving with a new rosary that could only have come with the Queen did not help his mood. Porthos' exhausted expression with a hateful, knowing gleam in his dark eyes really didn't help.

"Queen thanked him for saving her life," Porthos had explained. "Gave him a bloody rosary as he gave her the bloody Stare."

And then, the fair skinned blonde that Athos had noticed the night he'd been cleared of highway robbery came skidding into the garrison. Her eyes were wild as her head whipped about the practice yard. Athos had to push the jealousy he'd felt for her relationship with d'Art down again when he recognized the boy's scarf tied about her long neck. He let himself think it wasn't the same scarf, just a familiar looking one and the dusk was a bit chilled as the sun had sunk behind the horizon.

"Porthos! Thank god," the girl had huffed when she saw him, a smile playing over her face. "The Bonacieux house. Now. Quick!"

"Charlotte what-?" Porthos had begun only to be left staring as she disappeared.

"What was _that_ about?" Aramis had asked.

"Who knows? But she and Radha talk to d'Art," Porthos had sighed, pressing his hat to his head.

When they arrived at Constance's husband's home, they found d'Artagnan sitting by the fire with Constance herself. The brunette woman stared at them with a flustered look on her face when she'd opened the door to find them.

"I was just about to send her for you," d'Art chuckled as he leaned against the hearth.

"Charlotte was quicker," Aramis snickered.

"Vadim's planning on killing the King and Queen; start a peasant rebellion," the boy said.

Athos blinked. "Have you _seen_ the gun powder? Any weapons?"

The boy shook his head.

"His men?" Aramis asked.

"Hiding."

"When is this supposed to take place?" Athos pressed, head cocked to the side in confusion. The boy had learned the plan but found nothing else out? What was he even doing?

"Vadim doesn't say much," the boy mumbled.

"He trust you?" Porthos asked, the concern barely audible in his voice.

"Much as he does anyone…Which is about as much I trust others," the boy admitted. "Felix doesn't but I can handle him."

The conversation went on, the boy quoting something Vadim had told him in the prison about tricks and making people look the wrong way. Athos tried to talk the boy into dropping out when he admitted not knowing what Vadim had meant. He seemed determined to see this idiocy to the end though; even if his eyes seemed to search for Athos' approval.

Constance barged in then with drinks, muttering about finally being brought in on the charade. She slapped Aramis again when he told her it was a rather good play they'd put on, glaring at Porthos when he laughed. She left, voicing concern on how many ways a man could think to get killed, not knowing d'Art's eyes floated to follow her every movement.

"I think she likes you," Aramis whispered as he poured the boy some wine.

Athos stepped up to d'Art then, his mind screaming at him to get this boy out of the situation they'd put him in.

"It's too dangerous," he whispered, his voice sounding like it had back in Gascony.

D'Art straightened, putting his face in closer to Athos'.

"I can do this," he said, his eyes filled with a pain that Athos couldn't understand. "Trust me."

Aramis and Porthos gave him silent pleas to allow the continuation of the idiocy. The boy left them with the name of Vadim's mistress and her home.

"We've made the right decision yes?" Athos asked.

"Yes," Aramis said a bit too quickly.

Porthos waved his wine, his eyes betraying how he really felt. "Definitely."

"Well," Athos sighed. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Bonacieux's shouting answered the question rather immediately.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he groaned.

* * *

_Never speaking again_, d'Artagnan thought as he backed away from the woman from the shoddy inn where everything was extra.

He'd listened to Constance go on about how lodgers dying or being imprisoned, or being him was a terrible inconvenience. He remained silent as she claimed she wished lodgers died more often seeing as it made her life easier. He kissed her hand in apology only to have his skin crawl at the sound of her husband's voice. The man, while d'Artagnan knew he didn't know what was going on, was an idiot. Calling for guards to arrest a wanted man while in front of said wanted man? Truly, the man had no sense.

He put up with Athos, Aramis, and Porthos filing out of the house and coming to his rescue. He didn't mind Porthos and Aramis giving unveiled and veiled threats to Bonacieux if he didn't listen to Athos' command to stand aside. It brought back memories of his childhood when he'd been released from the Father's chambers and Porthos' overprotective glares at anyone stupid enough to scare him. There were also the memories of Aramis telling a shop owner off for calling him a thief when he was actually returning what had been stolen.

Then again, Athos' silent yet intimidating presence was far more comforting.

He rushed off, thanking Constance for her efforts before he left. He didn't manage a single street before he was spotted though, and running for his life down an alleyway. He knew of one cul-de-sac where there could possibly be an unlocked door for him to seek refuge but he cursed his luck when he found it locked. He'd been ordered to surrender or die as he'd fallen into a crouch. He knew his chances were bad what with his being unarmed but he knew what he could do too.

Then, _she_ appeared, a knife sliding into one guard's back and a gunshot ending the second.

"_You_," he hissed as his breathing came in pants. "Who _are_ you?"

"Your guardian angel," she said sweetly in her red cloak and dress that reminded him of Radha's hair. "Now, where is Vadim?"

He remained crouched, a fist ready should she strike at him with the bloodied knife. She spoke of having a powerful patron, offering him riches and power as she sauntered over the bodies towards him. He tried to slink out of the alcove as he listened to the catch of the offer.

"You set me up," he hissed.

"Now I've saved your life," she shrugged, the knife swinging from her fingertips like she was handling a pipe. She pressed up to him, his back hitting the cold wall as she invaded his personal space like she had that night.

"It wasn't just murder that made that night memorable," she murmured, her lips coming closer to his. "I only wish we could have done…a little more." Her lips brushed his causing his breath to hitch at the jolt that raced through his body.

"You're at the crossroads, dear boy," she whispered as he head weaved back and forth, denying him further touch while also teasing him with it. "Don't take the wrong path. Choose the Musketeers and you choose oblivion."

He was leaning forward to kiss her when he heard Athos' voice bellowing his full name from down the alley. She slipped around him, placing the knife at his neck as she bid him farewell. Then, she was gone without a sound and he was left wondering where Athos had learned his full name. As far as he could remember, he hadn't been called by anything but his nickname.

The three appeared before the alcove, staring between him and the two fallen men at his feet. Athos bid him to leave, saying they'd deal with the bodies. He dimly heard Athos command Porthos to follow him as he ran off, pulling his jacket close around his body.

He was almost prepared for Felix's yelling for Vadim to get rid of him when he returned. He remained silent as Vadim made a point of explaining to Felix in few words that he too shouldn't be trusted too heavily. He had to assure Vadim he'd been careful with Constance, who he had claimed to be his mistress to calm Felix only a few hours prior. Felix was far too jumpy for his liking but he didn't say that aloud. He settled down after Vadim ordered he ask for conjugal visits with her.

* * *

Suzette wasn't what Aramis would have called a believable liar but she wasn't exactly bad. There was just a feeling she was distracting them from something as he and Athos spoke to her about Vadim.

She claimed not reporting his presence for her own wish to not get involved with the Guards. Understandable considering her line of work. She admitted her closeness with the man which was also highly believable considering she was the one he'd been caught with. She claimed Vadim asked her to leave with him but she'd declined. That was believable due to her wish to avoid the Guards. She joked about what she usually did with Musketeers present when Athos suggested having her whipped to get the truth.

She admitted to being a scullery maid when she'd met Vadim, claiming him to have been a servant at the Louver Palace. She even explained that Vadim had a long hatred for the King, breaking promises to the people, which went along with the claims d'Artagnan had brought to them the night prior. She went on to promise she didn't know what Vadim was doing or where he was.

She joked polishing swords should they be off duty which was something Aramis had expected.

He still voiced his concern that she was covering, as he felt any lover should and would do for the other, for Vadim to Athos. He remained nearby as Athos left to tell Tréville the news.

* * *

The Cardinal hadn't seemed very happy that 'their agent' wasn't getting very far in gathering information. He did seem rather surprised at Vadim once being a servant to the crown, sending Athos to the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. As he had waited to be dismissed, he listened to Tréville and the Cardinal come up with the idea that Vadim would use the traditional showing of the royal family after Easter Mass for his attack.

The three of them tried to talk the King into using decoys to lure Vadim out. Athos tried to assure them they could catch the perpetrators, hopefully without a shot being fired, but the Queen made the point that their faces were too well known. They would have to be there for a lure to even work. She spoke her confidence in Tréville's men's abilities and King Louis claimed he wished to, like his father, never shirk public obligations. His father's assassination was brought up by the Cardinal only to have it shot down with a pointed statement that common sense was for commoners, not kings.

The First Gentleman was more forthcoming in information in Vadim's servitude. He had been kitchen staff, with no access to the King. It quickly came to light that Vadim had stolen something from the Queen's jewelry. A diamond pendant from the Queen's apartments and Vadim had managed a disappearing act. He and Tréville were shown to the royal vault, the walls glittering golden from the jewels within. Athos couldn't spot a way into the chamber past the hall they'd entered through.

As he stared down at the one empty pillow in the chamber, his thoughts raced back to the prior night. His hand gripped the pommel of his sword in frustration and regret. Sometime while he and Aramis had been dealing with the bodies, he'd realized he was pushing an image onto the young man who'd appeared before him. He'd called out the name he'd thought he'd heard Porthos say because of the moment of abject fear that had coursed through him. He was mistaking d'Art for a boy he'd lost.

He knew he was being stupid, casting Charles d'Artagnan and his brother's images onto the young man who Porthos and Aramis hovered over like the mother hens they were. Athos had been worried because the boy was so young, clueless to the horrors of battle. Where d'Art had promising skills, Athos was sure the boy wasn't ready for this sort of lifestyle. And this mission wasn't something they – Tréville namely – shouldn't have made him cut his teeth on.

He feared for another life wasted. Yet, he was powerless to stop what was happening at the moment. D'Art wasn't with him, wasn't by his side where he could stop idiocy from occurring. If the boy survived this mission, he'd make sure Porthos and Aramis never allowed their friend to be in such danger again.

The sight of blood on the floor in Vadim's hiding hole left Athos colder than the rains from five years ago. He nearly had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling at Tréville when the man flatly refused to look for the boy they'd all put in danger, saying they were to protect the King before worrying over the boy. He did not miss Porthos being the last to leave.


	14. Sleight of Hand: Part 4

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**I wish to also point out a source of inspiration for tiny things the boys do here: .com is an amazing artist and her/his fanart is wonderful and I have far too much respect for him/her so I want to point that out.**

**Ages in this chapter:**

**Athos: 47**

**Porthos: 41**

**Aramis: 40**

**d'Artagnan: 30**

* * *

D'Artagnan knew he was in trouble the moment his eyes fluttered open.

He knew Vadim's plan, a bombing at the Church after Easter Mass. Three men with bombs, four others standing by should they miss their targets. Vadim had said he was going to have d'Artagnan do something very special, something that would mark his name in history should he do well. He'd been given the map and sent to buy wine. He'd passed the map to Porthos as he walked by the bear-like man, whispering for him to send it to Tréville.

He'd returned to find the place filled with six new faces, Vadim spouting his plan and his trust in them all – brothers he'd called them – save for one. The word traitor was spoken and d'Artagnan remembered his blood running cold. Vadim's mistress spoke promises of Felix's safety when Vadim stared at him for too long, as Vadim raised his gun to point at d'Artagnan.

He'd been called a spy and knocked out.

He assessed himself with bleary eyes, trying to ignore the pounding of his head. His jacket opened and his wrists were bound to…barrels. He was sitting on one of the barrels as well. Vadim was squatting a few feet in front of him, a candle on a smaller barrel sitting next to him.

"I was hoping you would wake."

Temptation won out on d'Artagnan as he asked where they were, his voice cracking from sleep. Tunnels under the Louvre, the ones that ran to the city walls for quick escape of the royal family until it had been walled up – history lesson courtesy of Vadim. The man went on about how he found the tunnels as he laid a long fuse that brushed against d'Artagnan's discarded sword.

"In fifteen minutes," Vadim said as if he were discussing the weather, "that candle over there will burn down, lighting the fuse that will explode the powder stored in those barrels."

_Nice to know this is where it was_, d'Artagnan mused as he glared at the barrels he leaned against.

"Blowing me to pieces."

"Certainly! But, that's not the main purpose of the exercise."

"It doesn't matter what you do to me," d'Artagnan sighed. "Your plan is in the hands of good men. You've failed."

"Ah but…You've only told them what I've told you," Vadim chuckled. He seemed disappointed. "I even explained the trick."

_Son of a bitch_, d'Artagnan thought as Vadim packed a satchel with a few grenades and left him in the darkness.

As soon as the door closed, he was wrenching at the ropes on his wrists. He could get out of this; he knew he could. He'd escaped the jaws of death itself. He could get away from it again. It took far longer than he would have liked but he managed to cut himself free and cut the fuse. He gathered his things and moved to leave.

Now, if only Vadim hadn't rigged the damned door.

* * *

Porthos was livid. He hadn't liked this plan the moment d'Artagnan had ridden off with Vadim; mostly because it had gone completely to shit by then. He wasn't exactly pleased when d'Art, a boy he'd known to be able to snatch information out of the air, had come up with so little that first night but he had been willing to let it slide. The mission was hard and Vadim was an untrusting bastard on a good day.

Having the entirety of Vadim's men disappear under his watch had been bad though. Athos' finding of blood that could possibly belong to d'Art had only made him see red. Tréville's outright dismissal of the boy in favor of the plan they'd managed to get. Also, the cape of the official Musketeer uniform was hot and in the way.

Aramis leaping onto a grenade – dud or not – was the last goddamned straw. His brother in arm's kissing that damned rosary helped little.

Athos' revelation on the dub bomb made his stomach sink. D'Art had mentioned it to them. None of them had realized it though. None of them. And the palace was being blown up for their inept handling of the matter.

He, Aramis, and Athos managed to pin Vadim in an underground chamber, bellowing at him to stop. There was nowhere for him to run and Porthos almost wished for him to not surrender. He really wanted to shoot the man. Thoughts of d'Art kept him from doing so though. Aramis stayed at the top of the steps and he and Athos stepped closer to Vadim.

"It's over Vadim," Athos stated, his earlier panic gone.

Vadim turned to face them, a smirk on his face. "Not quite," he whispered.

"Where's d'Artagnan," Porthos growled, no longer caring if Athos looked at him funny for the name. Vadim gave him no answer, smiling all the while.

"Is he dead?" Athos asked, a barely audible shake in his voice.

There was threat there as well, though one had to know Athos well to hear it. Porthos knew him well, though he wondered at the tone. Athos hadn't shown any sort of care towards d'Art past his typical tolerance. Porthos and Aramis had been worried the man was only being nice because of d'Art's relationship to them.

But, if that were the case, why was Athos threatening Vadim without active threats?

Vadim's hands were over his ears then, Athos' eyes gorged with another revelation.

"DOWN!" Athos bellowed, pulling Porthos against a pillar as the wall on their left exploded.

* * *

Athos dragged himself to his feet, coughing up dust as Aramis stumbled up to him. Porthos was next up, much to the relief of the eldest of the three. The gaping hole in the wall stood like an invitation, a cool breeze shifting towards them.

"May as well," Aramis muttered.

"Right," Porthos snarled as he righted the scarf on his head and prepared his weapons.

The party of men they found were what they had left alive on the streets before Notre Dame, all of them scarred and wondering where Vadim was. Porthos, angry over the explosion and his unanswered questions, growled at them all. Hell broke loose again as the men shouted for their deaths. They dealt with them quickly enough, their experience far outweighing that of common fighters. The fuel of adrenaline from nearly blown to bits probably didn't help with the odds either.

As his last opponent dropped, the sound of metal meeting metal caught his attention.

"Come on," he hissed, rushing down the tunnel. _Please be the boy. Please be the boy._

* * *

"Vadim," d'Artagnan called from the darkness, his voice bouncing on the walls around them. Vadim spun, the fire on the torch hissing as it was swung about.

"Behind you."

The flame moved again. Vadim's breathing was hitched but his voice was near calm.

"You're full of surprises," the man said.

"I had a good teacher."

Vadim swung, missed. The torch blinded d'Artagnan for a moment, his position shown for a second. Another swing from Vadim that missed its target, d'Artagnan slipping through the shadows like a wraith. He let Vadim huff and gather his breath before speaking again.

"This way."

They spun in a circle, d'Artagnan repeating himself as he disappeared into the shadows.

"Over here," he sang from the shadows he'd danced back into.

The flame lit his features just before his blade snaked out at Vadim. Steel met steel as they spun and jerked towards and away from each other, sparks flying at the contact. Distantly, d'Artagnan knew he was hacking and slashing, his movements becoming a bit more formal as Vadim dropped the torch. He spun away from an attack, dropping to his knees before sliding his blade into Vadim's stomach.

Vadim disappeared into the darkness before d'Artagnan could grab the fallen torch. The clatter of running feet and weaponry barely registered until he was surrounded by the three inseparables.

"So you _are_ alive," Athos ground out past heavy breathing.

"Think so," d'Artagnan mumbled. He wasn't entirely sure himself to be honest. The blast had knocked the wind out of him earlier and this fight, while short, had been exhausting.

"Vadim?" Aramis asked. He held his sword over the torch, the blood gleaming in the light.

"Wounded," he said. "Badly. He can't have gone far," he added as he hurried down the path Vadim had taken. They passed dropped gold on their way through to a bent gate that led to the outer limits of Paris. The river was silent as they rushed to overtake the wounded man.

"Stop there Vadim!" Porthos shouted, guns ready.

"Stop!" Aramis shouted as d'Artagnan rounded the kneeling man. He pointed his sword towards Vadim's throat, eyes steady as the man panted at them.

"I should have killed you," Vadim muttered as he fell to his side. "Ah well…it was a good trick. Should have worked."

D'Artagnan bent his head as Vadim breathed his last. _It nearly did_, he thought as he sheathed his sword.

Aramis worried over him after Vadim stopped breathing, hands sweeping his dark hair back from his bloodied brow to find the cut Vadim had inflicted. As soon as it was found, Porthos was growling about how he wished Vadim were still alive. Aramis determined the cut would be fine seeing as it had stopped bleeding but he made it a mission to clean the blood from d'Artagnan's olive skin.

The conversation with Constance's husband went smoothly, their explanation of why the ruse had been required accepted with an astounding lack of humility for nearly botching the entire operation – and nearly getting him killed. He hated the sound of his voice as he spoke to the man before him but Porthos had told him to be polite and explain the situation himself. He begged Constance's forgiveness though he didn't dare promise such things wouldn't happen again.

* * *

"Are those forget-me-nots?" Charlotte asked as d'Artagnan stepped into their little corner.

The bar was almost empty of the average man and woman. The street rats were beginning to sneak in, their purses filled with enough coin to buy a few drinks and a meal. This corner of theirs, however, was a no-man's land of sorts; no one went near their trio this late in the day. Radha had knives and Charlotte never left Radha's side. D'Artagnan was also not to be trifled with; even though he'd been gone for the last two years. The bar patron was also a friend of the three – thanks to a few of their good deeds – and he had a gun under the bar.

D'Artagnan tossed the bunch of flowers onto the table with a grunt. He sank into a chair as if something were weighing him down as Radha stepped up to the table with a bowl of water and some bandages. She frowned at the bunch as she placed the bowl and cloth onto the table.

"Have a lover already?" Radha asked slyly as she pulled a piece an old scarf from a hidden pocket of her dress.

"No," he mumbled. "Though…I may have an interested party dancing around in the shadows."

"She pretty?" Charlotte asked, leaning over the table with his chin in her hands.

"Beautiful."

"Will we be meeting her?" Radha asked as she dipped the cloth into the water, a hand lifting his chin. "It's peeling…At least it stayed this long."

"Weren't expecting me were you?" d'Artagnan asked, fully intending to ignore her earlier question. He had no intention of these two meeting that woman. Not after what he'd witnessed.

"Not really but that message for bandages was hard to ignore," Radha grumbled as she cleaned the brown paint from the column of his neck. The boy smiled at her as she removed the paint to reveal the dark, jagged line on his neck.

The message she spoke of had been passed to her by one of the younger boys he'd known to hang on their every word. He'd flashed his wrists at the boy as soon as his Musketeer friends weren't watching. She continued frowning at him as he shed his jacket, lying it across the back of the chair.

"Are those rope burns?" Charlotte hissed as he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up.

"Yes," he said. "They're rather raw too."

"We can see that," Radha huffed as she flopped into a chair, dipping another bit of cloth into the bowl. She wiped at his chaffed and red wrist with a deft hand that left no lasting impression on his skin past the cool of the water. She smoothed a salve over the raw skin before wrapping it with the bandages. As Radha set in on his other wrist, Charlotte gave a soft sigh.

"That woman you sent your friends to speak to," Charlotte murmured, "you should probably know she's been killed."

"Killed?" d'Artagnan asked.

"We found her dead midday today," Radha confirmed.

"Midday," he mused.

"She seemed to be packing," Charlotte whispered, a hand next to her mouth. She leaned back then, pulling his scarf from her neck.

Radha nodded, her hands lifting a chain from around her neck. "Her jewelry was left on her table though so something may have been taken from her residence."

"Something stolen huh?" he smiled, pulling the sleeves down to hide the injuries. "Interesting."

Radha looped the chain with his trinket over his head, her long fingers settling the trinket against the center of his chest. Charlotte folded the scarf in half before handing it back to the boy before her with a soft smile.

"Are you planning on seeing Flea and Charon any time soon?" Radha asked as he looped the fabric around his neck, pulling the tails through the loop formed from the initial fold.

"We'll see," he said, leaning back in the seat. "For now, I think I'd prefer to catch up with my friends. Maybe change the path of my life while I'm at it."

"Got tired of being a street rat?" Radha chuckled.

"It doesn't pay enough," he smirked. "Not even in our business."

"So," Radha crooned as she signaled for food to be brought over. "Have you filled the third on in on your name?"

D'Artagnan frowned. He hadn't told Athos his name but the man already knew it thanks to Porthos. Athos had gone on to explain that his name reminded the man of a boy he knew – and lost Athos claimed with grief welling in his eyes.

"Porthos let it slip," he admitted as he sipped at his ale. The girls frowned, knowing how he felt about his name remaining between only close friends.

"That doesn't seem to be the reason you're so saddened yourself," Charlotte murmured past her food, her cheek puffed around it like a rodent hording food.

"…He…he seems to have lost hope in me," d'Artagnan whispered mostly to himself. The girls gazed at him in silence, unsure of how to continue from there.

Radha, having learned some of his story, had a feeling that this third Musketeer had something to do with that clouded history she wasn't privy to. The way his fingers played with the trinket hinted to her that this Athos had probably been the one to give it to d'Artagnan. However, she knew her place when it came to dealing with d'Artagnan's past. She knew to not press him on matters pertaining to what he was not ready to share.

So, she steered the conversation to what she knew to be safe territory; rumors and gossip.

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	15. Guns and Children: Part 1

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**I wish to also point out a source of inspiration for tiny things the boys do here: kaciart on Tumblr is an amazing artist and her/his fanart is wonderful and I have far too much respect for him/her so I want to point that out.**

* * *

Two weeks after Vadim's death, Athos was told by Tréville that he, Porthos, and Aramis were to look into a possible group that was selling illegal weaponry. Supposedly, Vadim's taking of powder had involved taking a few guns along the way. Vadim had only wanted the powder so the guns were lingering about the place.

He'd searched for Aramis and Porthos for the better part of the morning. They had been late for patrol and Athos, having already looked to see if they were with d'Art, had decided to search the garrison. He was walking past the stables when a sound caught his attentions.

It was a small gasp, and Athos knew the utterer was in pain by the lit of the sound. While it wasn't unusual for someone in the Regiment to be injured, he had yet to get used to d'Art uttering any sound of that sort. He couldn't even understand how he knew the gasp was from d'Art; he just knew. He almost barged into the stable when he heard Aramis growl at the boy to stay still. Aramis _never_ growled at his patients. Athos had only ever heard the man give lighthearted scolding to anyone he worked on, though he tended to lose some of his humor when his stitches were ripped.

He peered around the corner to find Porthos sitting behind d'Art on a long bench, his burly arms wrapped around the boy's torso and his chin digging into the boy's shoulder. The bear of a man's eyes glowed with a dark light that Athos had gotten used to seeing whenever Aramis had gotten himself into danger.

Aramis sat in front of d'Art, his ungloved hands smoothing a salve of some sort over the boy's mangled wrist. The boy's other hand gripped at Aramis' pauldron with scrambling fingers as he clenched his teeth around a guttural scream that was threatening to breach his lips. It took a whole two minutes for Aramis to finish with the salve as Porthos struggled to keep the boy still.

"You should have _told_ me about this d'Art," Aramis hissed as he wrapped the mangled wrist, his eyes shrouded with concern. "I could have _done_ something about it sooner!"

"It wasn't that bad a few days ago," d'Art huffed as Porthos adjusted his tree-limb-like arms around him.

"They're _infected_," Aramis hissed as he tied the bandage with a bit more force than necessary. The boy gasped, his body trying to fling itself away from the offending pain only to end up buried even further in Porthos' hold.

"It wasn't that bad," d'Art whimpered as Porthos held him close.

"Yeah well," Porthos mumbled, "let us know next time. Can't have you out of commission over a stupid scratch."

"You're not even mad about the injury," d'Art had grumbled.

"No," Porthos had said, his arms stiffening around the boy. "I'm mad about how they came about. That bastard was lucky _you_ got to him before I did."

"Indeed," Aramis had hissed as his hands smoothed over the boy's bandaged wrists. "Tying you to barrels of powder like that…I'll bet they were behind the wall he blew out for his escape too."

"Obviously," Porthos had snarled.

"You…won't tell Athos…will you?"

"d'Art," Porthos began.

"No. Don't. There's no point in worrying him," the boy mumbled.

"Speaking of Athos," Aramis whispered as he packed away his unused bandages. The bottle of salve rang against the others in the bag he always had with him. "Porthos and I are late for patrol. Overly late."

Porthos grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. He tucked the boy closer to his chest as Aramis pressed a chaste kiss to the bandaged wrists he'd finished seeing to. A few other words were shared between the three, Athos missing them as he slipped back to the gate of the garrison. He collected his breathing outside for a moment, his head swimming with possibilities of what he could do, should do, could say, and should say.

He resolved himself to have a word with Tréville about the young man who'd appeared into their lives, upending everything he'd been using to keep himself sane. He couldn't fault Porthos and Aramis for having another friend; not when the friend was willing to help protect the King and Queen themselves.

He strode back into the gate of the garrison, spotting Porthos and Aramis immediately as the two were belting their weapons to their bodies. He greeted them in a calm manner, one that surprised him, asking where they had been the whole morning. They mumbled that they were conferring with a friend, making sure he was feeling alright after…They trailed off, away from the explanation. He didn't question them though, remembering the pleading tone from d'Artagnan.

He resisted the urge to shake his head at the mental slip. He'd spoken to d'Art after Vadim had died, explaining that the boy had done well. He was beginning to wonder how he would distinguish the young man here from the boy in Gascony.

"Vadim apparently stole guns as well as powder," he explained. "Tréville wishes for us to find the weapons and arrest their holders."

"An easy mission," Aramis smiled. "Where do we begin?"

Porthos, however, was frowning. "I can only think of two people Vadim could have left weapons with," he said. "None of them are good."

"That goes without saying," Aramis chuckled, though his smile was waning.

"Do you know anyone who may be able to lead us to these men?" Athos asked as he caught sight of d'Art slipping from the stables, his hands futzing with his scarf. Athos tried to not wonder at the boy's ability to keep the sleeves of his leather jacket and shirt over the bandages.

Porthos sighed, his head falling to his chest.

"D'Art!" Porthos called. The boy's head snapped up, eyes wide as his dark bangs flying over his olive brow. Porthos waved him over, his head not rising to face the young man. D'Art frowned, his brow furrowing as he walked over.

"Yes?" d'Art asked cautiously once he was within their little circle.

"We need to find a few people," Porthos muttered, a hand rising to scratch the back of his neck. "People you tend to keep an eye on."

"Sounds ominous," d'Art said with a sly smirk. He shoved Porthos' shoulder. "Which people?"

"Auhert and…_possibly_…Therron?" Porthos said, his hands fisted and bouncing off each other in front of his torso. He refused to look at the men around him as he spoke, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes as he chewed at his bottom lip.

"Auhert?" d'Art asked, his arm crossing his torso as he tapped a finger to his temple in thought. "No…he's not been in Paris for months."

"So, this, Therron then?" Aramis asked, leaning towards d'Art when Porthos sent him a dark look from under the wide brimmed hat.

"Therron…Ack, I'll have to ask around on him."

"Only ask around," Porthos said through gritted teeth. D'Art looked at the man like he'd grown another set of heads.

"That goes without your asking Port," d'Art said with an incredulous smirk. "No one's forgotten the last time one of the Young Ones got too close to his house."

Athos' hand was pressed against d'Art's chest without his notice, his eyes narrowed with something akin to worry. He glanced between Porthos and the young man before them. He glanced at Aramis only to find mirrored concern.

"This…Therron, was it?" Aramis touched the subject the way he probed around injuries, with a gentle nudge and deft fingers. "He likes his privacy?"

"No…He likes…" Porthos was growling, spittle passing through his gritted teeth.

He halted his words as he jerked his body to a halt. Athos wasn't wholly sure that Porthos had noticed he'd started moving towards d'Art in such a feral manner, shoulders leading his body as he moved towards d'Art. There was a gleam in the larger man's eyes that spoke of protection at all costs, consequences be damned.

Aramis was frowning. "What is it?"

"Don't worry about it," d'Art said with a dismissive wave, a hint of the bandaging peeking past the hem of his sleeves. "I assume we wish this to be wrapped up quickly?" He was looking at Athos, a brow raised in interest.

"Quickly but thoroughly," Athos affirmed. The young man nodded with a smile on his lips.

"Give me the day," he asked. "I'll find something out." And like a ghost, he was gone, leaving the three staring at where he'd been standing.

"Quick little blighter," Aramis muttered with an amused chuckle. He glanced at Porthos who was staring at the gate of the garrison, worry brimming his eyes. "Porthos, my friend. I've not seen you this worried in weeks!"

Athos nearly bit his tongue at the blatant lie. They were truly going to heed the boy's plea to not let him know? He wasn't sure why it surprised him; he'd known for years that Porthos and Aramis were loyal to their friends. D'Art was their friend and, from all their actions, had been such far longer than Athos.

Though, Athos could not help but feel the young man seemed to hold him a bit higher than Porthos and Aramis.

"Not here," Porthos hissed, pulling at Aramis' coat as he backed up towards the barracks. "This is not something we should speak of in _civilized_ company."

They wandered after him amiably, sharing looks of bemused confusion as they went. Aramis managed to banter about his latest night out as Porthos led them to a room that was what sufficed for personal confessionals that could not be shared with Tréville. No priests were brought to this room though; only fellow soldiers who could either lend a sympathetic ear or a soothing bottle of something warming.

It had been a surprise to hear from Aramis that it had been up some time after the massacre in Savoy. He hadn't said it in so many words but it was clear none the less. Athos suspected that Porthos and Aramis had been the ones to start the tradition. They'd certainly dragged him into the room on a few occasions, never having him speak but always having him bring wine and brandy when they needed to vent about the Cardinal or the Guard.

The door shut it a low click as boots scuffed the wood floor. Athos leaned against the window sill, blue eyes gazing down at the bustling street under them. If he tried, he could almost imagine himself in the old inn in Lupiac, waiting for Old Alexandre and his horses to rumble under the window with little Charles by his side. If he could just ignore the scent of Paris and the knowledge that the old farm house was no longer standing.

"So," Aramis breathed, all his humor gone. "What is it about this man that has you so upset?"

"Therron…"

"Yes?" Aramis pressed gently.

"He's a sick bastard," Porthos muttered, his jaw tight as he paced the small room. It took all of five of his long strides for him to cross the room before he had to spin around to cross it again. He had his hat fisted in his hands, his eyes unfocused.

"Many in Paris are," Athos muttered.

"Not all are like him," Porthos insisted as he wrung his hands together.

"Careful," Aramis admonished though his eyes spoke of another emotion. "You'll rub skin off your hands you're not careful."

"You'd prefer that over Therron."

"Oh, would I now?" Aramis asked, his tone changed once again to something a bit dark. Athos pressed his back to the wall, knowing full well what happened when Aramis thought Porthos threatened or harmed; nothing pleasant.

"Yes," Porthos growled though it wasn't aimed at them. He combed a gloved hand through his hair with a huff, head shaking as he swayed from foot to foot.

"Just what are Theron's preferences?" Athos asked. "We've seen many things on these streets so I doubt it should shock you Porthos."

"You can only say that because you don't _know_!" Porthos yelled. Aramis was between the two of them in a beat, arms out wide and face calm.

"Then tell us," he said in a soft voice, as if he were speaking to a child, "so we can understand."

Porthos frowned, his brow furrowed as his head shook. He seemed torn to Athos' eyes. Torn between explaining what he knew and keeping it secret for his own reasons. Athos knew the feeling, understood the dark corners in which a man wished to hide…_things_. He knew it well; considering what his past hid. Instead, he watched as Porthos worried his bottom lip with his teeth, wondering what could be so bad that it had Porthos this riled.

"Therron…likes…" Porthos ground out, his voice dying as he tried. He shook his head again, a low snarl blowing past his lips. "Children."

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions. I also pose the question of how intimate you all would like the boys to be with each other. I have this head canon that may fit well in here about Porthos and his upbringing making him alright with open contact but usually only with specific people.**


	16. Guns and Children: Part 2

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

* * *

D'Art's return was reminiscent of a returning soldier seeing his brothers for the first time in years. Aramis had bundled the young man into his arms as soon as he'd seen him, nearly choking the boy in the process. Porthos had wrapped his arms around both once he'd untangled himself from his sparing practice. Athos had been standing with Tréville on the balcony of the man's office when the young man had returned, smiling sunshine as he waltzed into the yard. He'd managed to keep himself from pelting down the creaking steps to join his friends and their – he dared to think – little brother as the three spoke.

"What have you learned?" Athos asked, once he'd managed to pull the three off to a side where everyone would leave them be.

It surprised him that no one had spoken a word about the scene Aramis and Porthos had just made. No one even bothered to do anything other than shrug and continue about their days. Tréville himself had only chuckled at the antics of two of his three best. It had become a staple of the day to see d'Art around the place after all. His work with Vadim seemed to have only cemented the boy's place there.

"Therron is in Paris," d'Art said with a winning smile. "He's had a few visitors but we believe that all of them were there for legitimate reasons. There's at least one man we couldn't account for though."

"Wait," Athos hissed, a hand waving in front of the boy's face to catch his breathless attentions. Confused brown eyes glanced his way, something lighting up within the chocolate orbs when their eyes met. That same feeling that Athos was the favored above Aramis and Porthos washed over the elder man, bile filling the back of his throat.

"Yes?" d'Art asked with an innocent cock of his head.

"You said 'we' just now."

"You think I'd run this alone? Are you insane?"

Athos found himself sputtering an excuse that wouldn't form. Aramis and Porthos were chuckling though Aramis seemed to have a dark glint in his eyes.

"Children tend to run information on the streets," Porthos supplied. "They work in groups. Safety reasons."

D'Art nodded with a triumphant smirk. "Well done Port! They haven't turned you into a gentleman yet!"

Athos pressed a hand to Porthos' shoulder to signal for the man to be silent. He watched Aramis as the man looped an arm over d'Art's shoulders. There was a glow of concern swimming in Aramis' dark eyes that was focused solely on the young man in their company. Aramis pressed the boy to his side with a subtlety that Athos had thought to be nonexistent in the man. There was a protectiveness flowing in those eyes too; one that Athos had only seen from him when Porthos was in danger.

"Radha and I won't let Charlotte near this either way," d'Art promised to Porthos before turning back to Athos. The elder man ignored Porthos' indignant 'I should hope so' as he gazed down at the boy before him. "Therron's guest was covered with a cloak so we couldn't see his face. We only know that he visited him."

"So, you have no way of knowing who this man was?" Aramis concluded with a frown. D'Art shook his head but gave Porthos a pointed look.

"I can find out," he said.

"No," Porthos growled. "Not happening. Over my dead body."

He was waving rather emphatically as d'Art rolled his eyes, smiling away the clouds. Aramis sent Athos a worried look which Athos tried his best to not mirror. It wasn't easy though for Athos had a sinking feeling that d'Art's methods would include actions that they would have to arrest him for.

"d'Art," Aramis said in a hushed whisper. "Maybe you should let us go forward form here?"

The boy glared at him as Porthos nodded as enthusiastically as he'd been waving his hands about just a moment before. Athos could feel his stomach sinking, his lips pressing into a thin line as the nagging pull of his insides began to grind on him.

"Radha and I can handle this," d'Art said.

"No," Porthos repeated.

"Port," d'Art stated, his voice hard and eyes cold. "Stop. I'm not twelve anymore and I've handled far worse than Therron. Besides, he won't tell you lot anything."

"What makes you think he'll talk to _you_?" Athos blurted. He almost smacked his hand to his brow for the out of character reaction when d'Art leveled him with a simple statement.

"He owes me a favor."

* * *

Aramis hadn't ever seen Porthos move through the streets as quickly as the man was currently. The early morning crowds were nothing to sneeze at that morning either for the weather was turning warmer and the markets were already humming from new fabrics and fruits. They'd been searching since the morning thanks to waking to find d'Art wasn't present in the dorm housing they'd shared together the night before.

They'd wanted to talk the boy into letting them handle things from then on, d'Art fighting them the whole way. He was 'owed a favor' and that was what his argument rested its weight on besides his expectation that Therron would never speak to Musketeers. They'd fallen asleep in Porthos' room, d'Art and Porthos sprawled across the bed as Aramis spread himself over the seat of the window sill and Athos slumbered in the chair.

Porthos had dragged him and Athos to the small cul-de-sac where he and Porthos had trained d'Art in shooting and hand-to-hand. Athos had been rather horrified when he learned _where_ they'd practiced shooting, hissing and spitting that anyone with enough sense would have called for Guards when _gunshots_ were going off. Porthos had muttered about no one caring in this part of town where hardly anyone lived and those who did taught their children many of the same things as they had taught d'Art.

After they'd found the boy not there, Porthos had gone wandering about the town, looking in every pub they came across. Athos had been silent after the argument over the training arrangements; though he seemed to be in far more want of wine than usual. Aramis was sure they were running out of bars and taverns when Porthos gave a whoop of joy.

"Charlotte!"

"Porthos?" a young girl with braided, blonde hair called back in surprise.

She wore rags that had been sewn together in a macabre illusion of well mended clothing that hugged her torso and arms. The skirt, which was the most patched together of all, looked to have been made of three separate cloths of varying texture and length. It was asymmetrically cut, showing her trouser covered shins and dragging in the back. She was wearing male boots that showed proof of heavy uses. The braids in her hair were, intricate and varied in thickness as well as length. There were a few beads and the occasional feather weaved into the braiding that framed a soft face that had yet to lose the look of infancy. Green eyes peeked from behind loose bangs that brushed her cheeks.

"There you are, sweet child!" Porthos called, sweeping the girl into one of his bear hugs. His hat fell to the ground as her arms accidentally toppled it from his head as he lifted her from her feet. He spun her about, laughing his deep throated laugh as she giggled at his antics.

"Oh," she scolded as he put her back onto her feet, her body bending to pick up his hat. "It's all dirty now."

He waved it off with a snort as she batted dust from the hat. It was handed back to its owner with little fuss as Porthos commented on how well she looked. He introduced Aramis and Athos as soon as he'd placed the hat back on his head. The girl, Charlotte, smiled at them both.

"Wonderful to meet you," Aramis said, pouring a little of his charm into his voice as he held out a hand for her. She placed hers in his and allowed him to kiss her knuckles. Porthos sent him a warning glare.

"Porthos, stop that," she scolded with a giggle. "D'Art would have his head faster than you anyway."

"True," Aramis mumbled, ignoring the slight widening of Athos' eyes at the statement. It took them a few moments to whisk her to a more private alleyway where they could talk without raising too many questions from unwanted observers.

"Charlotte," Porthos said in a hushed tone, his body hovering next to her small form. She was shorter than d'Art though there was this air about her Aramis found intimidating. It was like he was with d'Art only there was something different. He wasn't sure what it was though.

"Yes, Porthos?" she asked.

"d'Art is doing us all a favor," Aramis admitted.

"With Therron?" she asked.

"Yes," Porthos said, his eyes darting towards Aramis and Athos. "What have you heard, little one? What news has he shared?"

"Just that he and Radha were going to have him repay them for something," she said with a shrug.

"He mentioned a favor being owed," Athos murmured from where he leaned against the alley walls. His face was hidden behind the brim of his hat thanks to his bent head but his voice remained clear.

The girl glanced his way for a moment before returning her gaze to Porthos. Aramis realized then what it was that was causing his unease around this girl. She held the same look in her eyes that d'Art had when he looked to Athos. There was a familial appreciation that glowed deep within the girl's eyes that spoke only of admiration and love. Aramis could recognize it as something similar to what d'Art held in his gaze when he seemed to search for Athos' approval. Yet, there was something lacking in that regard when it came to this girl.

"d'Art and Radha helped him once," the girl stated with a sneer. "Taught him a lesson along the way but not a good enough one in my mind." She rubbed an arm as she spoke as if she were cold. Her face showed nothing but a seeded anger that Aramis wished to not breech.

"A lesson?" Porthos asked, brave as always. He probably had less to fear of this girls though, given their possible history. She was a friend of d'Art's and d'Art only had oh so many friends that Aramis could think of. And Porthos knew this girl by name as well as sight so it was likely she'd been from the same origins as Porthos.

"He picked the absolute worst person to have an…interest in," Charlotte sneered. Porthos' eyes were dark once again while Aramis tried to convey sympathy towards the girl. She continued to rub her arms as she spoke, her eyes distant as she stared at something over her shoulder. Aramis wondered if it was something only she could see or if it was something actually present in the alleyway.

"Dare I even ask?" Porthos snarled.

"A lesser nobleman's daughter," Charlotte said with a dismissive shrug as if she gave little to no care about class and rank. All she seemed to care about was this other girl's sanctity. It was well known that women of higher status – and even the slightly lower standings – were to keep themselves…pure. Even Porthos had known of that when he'd come into the Musketeers.

"That is a rather…risky investment for a person's interests," Aramis mumbled. Porthos was fisting his hands together, his teeth ripping at his bottom lip.

"d'Art and Radha got her loose and returned her home," Charlotte explained.

"Doing so against the rules I assume," Athos muttered. The girl nodded, her hair clacking as she did. She refused to look at them.

"Radha stayed long enough with the girl to get a reward while d'Art…"

"What'd he do?" Porthos groaned.

"Paid Therron a visit," Charlotte said with a nervous twitch as she shrank against the wall.

"Sounds like 'im," Porthos muttered as he scrubbed a gloved hand over his face.

Aramis winced as the girl continued to shrink against the wall. He placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder to show sympathy, trying to prove he felt no judgment against her or d'Art for what she was revealing to them. He glanced towards Athos only to find his friend's face as unreadable and brooding as ever.

"What would he have done?" Aramis asked, his gaze on Porthos. The mulatto shrugged with a sigh, a hand rising in the air as if he were throwing something over his shoulder before it fell back to his side with a _thwack_.

"Did he…attack Therron?" Porthos asked, his hand rising back up to fall on the girl's other shoulder. She leaned into his touch, away from the wavering press of Aramis' hand. The Spaniard found he couldn't blame her. He'd have leaned away from the uncertainty his hand projected had he been in her situation.

Charlotte shook her head. "I wish he had," she muttered.

Aramis' hand rose, curling into a ball at her tone. He had met enough people to recognize that tone. The girl had been nervous since they'd brought up Therron and had shown nothing but contempt for the man as she spoke.

"He's one of those?" Aramis asked, his eyes dark.

"He proved he could be," Porthos growled as he shook his head. "It's _why_ the young ones aren't allowed near his residence without at least two others."

"That much is clear," Athos muttered, his head turned away.

"So…what? D'Art just yelled at him?" Porthos asked.

"'Talked to him' was what d'Art claimed," Charlotte sneered before crossing herself and spitting at the dirt between her feet. "Radha returned to find d'Art leaving the residence, unharmed."

"d'Art got this idiot out of a serious charge, stopped an attempted violation of a young girl, and has been holding it against the man for…years?"

"d'Art holds all his favors owed close at hand," Charlotte said. "He never forgets who owes him what and he makes sure they don't forget."

"Even when no one sees him for two years?" Aramis asked with a soft scoff.

"Especially then."

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	17. Guns and Children: Part 3

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**It's dead week starting...now. No promises will be made - I have yet to re-watch "The Good Soldier" for this story. Also, my question on how intimate you all want the boys to be still stands. They can be brothers or they can have a bit more dependency on touch. Choice is yours readers.**

* * *

Radha's hair was wilder than Charlotte's. Fiery red curls looped in ringlets that rolled over her pale, bare shoulders like overly bright rivers of blood. She was as difficult to find as Charlotte despite the curling flames on her head. Her clothes were just as tattered and patched together as Charlotte's but where Charlotte had been wearing a dress over her trousers, Radha was far more daring as she wandered in men's trousers. The corset about her torso was probably the only intact thing on her body and it was too big, the straps slipping off her shoulders. The white blouse she wore was also rather large, the sleeves slipped from her shoulders and over her hands.

She struck Aramis as confident if a bit overly so. She had been sitting on wooden crates on the docks, waving children about the wharf with a smile. Her green eyes glowed in the low afternoon night as she caught sight of them. Porthos had waved her over and they waited as she continued on with the children. Aramis watched as she herded them about with an efficiency that would have made Tréville kiss her.

"You know what," he murmured as she danced over to them.

"What?" Porthos asked as he swayed on his feet.

"I think I've seen her before," Aramis said. "After Savoy, after Athos returned home…I think I've seen her and d'Art running about the streets together from time to time."

"Surely you would have," the girl said, a lit to her voice that spoke of Irish decent. She smiled at them with oddly white teeth for someone of her lack of station, green eyes gleaming with mischief. She had a bunch of grapes in her hands that she was plucking from the branches with thin fingers.

"Thought the idea was to stay hidden," Aramis snickered.

"It is," she laughed around a grape. "However, d'Art likes you lot and stopped being sneaky around you sometime around…oh…when was it?"

"Sometime…twenty years ago," Aramis said, his heart blossoming with a warmth he tended to only feel around d'Artagnan.

She hummed around the food, her hand pointing at him enthusiastically. "Yes…Made sure you got home safe after a rough day."

"When was this?" Porthos asked, Athos' blue eyes reflecting the same confusion.

"A bit before I started to teach him to shoot," Aramis admitted. "I snuck out remember?"

"You what?" Athos hissed causing Radha to laugh, her body bending at its center as she hugged her stomach.

"Oh you boys are a treat to meet in person," she chuckled before she popped another grape into her mouth.

"Where'd you get those?" Athos asked, his brow furrowed. The girl jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards one of the ships. She'd lifted a brow, her head cocking in amusement, as she made the gesture. Athos sighed, nodding his understanding. He didn't voice his feelings on the matter though.

"That little alcove where you lot trained, by the way?" she said around her illegally begotten snack. "Wonderful spot to catch one's breath when running from Guards."

"_Don_'t tell us that!" Porthos hissed, smacking her shoulder. They were laughing through the exchange, eyes glittering with similar lights.

"How'd you find it?" Athos asked, his voice concerned. "Porthos can barely fit into the pathway we took."

"Now, now," Porthos grumbled. "I did too."

"Surely," Radha chuckled. She looked to Athos then. "I followed him there once; to be sure he wasn't getting himself into trouble."

"Trouble like…Therron?" Athos asked.

"That's right," she mumbled, her booted foot kicking at the dirt. "He'd helping you with that isn't he?" They nodded at her. "Ack…that one's a bastard if ever there was one."

"We've gathered that," Athos grumbled. "Seemed to also have a history with your other friend."

"You bothered Charlotte about this?" Radha asked Porthos. The man smiled an uneasy smile. She scowled. "Remember the reason you, Charon, and Flea started cracking down on going out in twos and threes?"

"Yes," Porthos said, his head bent as he dragged his hat from his head to press it to his chest. She slapped his shoulder.

"Dumbass," she growled. "You're as bad as d'Art as it is. Leave her alone on Therron."

"Right," Aramis sighed through gritted teeth. He and Athos glanced at each other, an understanding falling over them. Aramis knew then that Athos had noted the tone Charlotte had used before about Therron. They hadn't expected her friend to prove it in so few words.

"Need something?" Radha asked.

"Have you seen d'Art?" Aramis asked. "Charlotte hasn't and we're a bit…_concerned_ over this favor he's owed." Radha gave them an amused look that was tainted by something akin to disbelief.

"Therron owes far more than a simple favor," Radha smirked. "He's lucky d'Art didn't bring Charon with him on that little visit…Lucky d'Art didn't bring me for that matter. I'd have castrated the bastard."

"Flea would have cheered you," Porthos chuckled.

"Truer words," Radha smirked. "No…In all honesty, Therron was lucky all d'Art did was _talk_ to him. Maybe a few hits were shared but d'Art kept himself…_civil_ would be the word I think."

"What was his deal with Therron?" Athos asked.

"That Therron leave the nobles alone and not even consider looking at the kids on the street in exchange for our silence on that particular case as well as his…remaining intact."

"The exchange was your silence as well as that of the girl you two saved?" Aramis asked.

Radha shrugged. "He wished to not be killed or harmed and not to be given to the authorities. D'Art made him promise to leave our little ones alone and to think before he acted around other children lest we _did_ hand him to the authorities."

"Sounds as if he came out ahead on the deal," Athos muttered.

"Not really," Radha sneered. "d'Art paid further visits to remind the man of the favors he owes."

"Favors?" Athos echoed.

She nodded. "Therron has impulse issues and d'Art's been good at catching him before he did anything stupid. He owes a good deal to d'Art. Myself as well but I let d'Art have those seeing as I have other things to deal with."

"d'Art's always been good at getting others to talk to him," Aramis chuckled. "I should know."

"As should I," Porthos grumbled. "So Therron owes d'Art favors for keeping him out of trouble. What would those be?"

"Telling him when certain goods that should not belong to certain people are en route to said people."

"Well…there's one last place we can look," Athos muttered, turning away from the girl and starting to leave. Aramis smiled to the girl and turned to follow him, Porthos saying his farewells before he too followed.

* * *

D'Art had meandered into the garrison sometime while they were off speaking to Radha. He was with Tréville, talking to the elder man with a relaxed air that only he was able to have around the captain. Porthos and swept the boy into a head lock, the two guffawing as they wrestled about. Athos stepped up to Tréville with a dark glint in his eyes.

"Where have you all been?" Tréville asked.

"We were looking for d'Art," Aramis admitted as he came up on Athos' right. Athos continued to watch Porthos and d'Art play, trying to ignore the bandages as they peeked past jacket sleeves.

"Ah…he's given me an update."

"Therron knows where the guns are going, though he'd prefer your arrest be done somewhere other than his home," d'Art called from where he and Porthos were elbowing each other. "The new visit will return tomorrow to finish making a deal for them."

"Are you two children?" Aramis scolded as he separated them.

D'Art chuckled as Porthos grinned. Athos' heart clenched at the sight. He was jealous, he knew that. Besides the memories that continued to peck at him, he wasn't sure why. It couldn't just be because of how the three acted around each other that he would find himself thinking of the two brothers he'd lost; Little Charles and Thomas.

"Anything else we need know?" Tréville asked the young man.

"Well…while Therron would prefer your arrests not occur in his home, I would prefer they did," d'Art stated.

"Why?" Tréville asked.

"He needs to be kept on his toes."

"Alright then," Tréville stated. "Athos, come up with a few men. If this buyer is making a visit tomorrow as d'Art claims, I want you all there."

"I'll choose our best," Athos promised.

"Go on then," Tréville commanded. "d'Art, I wish to speak to you for a moment."

"Huh? Oh, alright."

"Go on you three," Tréville stated. "He'll be fine."

* * *

"You wish to speak to me, Sir?" d'Art asked the elder Gascon before him. Tréville stared down at him with an impassive, questioning gaze. They stood in relative silence within the elder's office.

"d'Art," Tréville said with a soft glow in his eyes. "I'm glad to have your help as of late."

"I'm glad to help," d'Art said softly, his voice ragged as if he hadn't been using it. Tréville found it interesting that the young man's voice spoke as loudly as a cannon going off.

"They are your friends after all," Tréville smiled. "I'm pleased at the changes I've been seeing in them since your…eventful arrival."

"My apologies."

"No need." It shocked Tréville to no end how terse the boy's statements became when they were alone. If d'Art wasn't giving him straight information or around Athos, Porthos, or Aramis, his sentences became short, pointed. They also seemed to get very formal.

"If that is all?"

"Actually, I wish to apologize to you," Tréville said quickly as the boy turned to leave.

"For?"

"Yelling at you about your injuries."

The boy's hand gripped one of his wrists, his olive cheeks flushing.

"You were right though."

"d'Art," Tréville sighed. "Look, those three seem to have taken an interest in you. One I find myself alright with. I would hate to deal with the aftermath if anything were to happen to you…Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Truly?"

The boy smiled at him, a sad light in his brown eyes. "Yes. Truly."

* * *

Athos was sitting in a room in the residence of Therron the following morning, his head humming from the clamor of boots and clattering of metal against legs. The arrest had taken almost no time after they – he, Porthos, Aramis, and a few others from the Regiment – had made their entrance. It had taken little time for them to tear through the small residence though.

He'd rushed through the mansion, Porthos and Aramis on his heels, shooting at anyone who dared to lift a weapon towards him. They had been worried their target would disappear. He'd brought three other men with him and they had been rounded up with a great deal more effort than Athos was willing to admit.

However, that was not the current cause of his worry.

The room he'd crashed into while apprehending one of the targets was occupied and while that would not have surprised him on a good day, this wasn't a good day. The occupant was bound in rope, hands tied to one of the bed posts and ankles pressed together abusively. There was a cloth tied about his mouth as well, though it did not stop the muffled sounds he produced as he cowered from Athos.

Athos had been surprised to find him, this child who couldn't be older than eleven, but the twisting in his stomach had made him daring enough to try to step up to the boy. His prior entrance to the room hadn't been the best way to make a first impression though. Athos _had_ crashed through the door, wrestling a man he'd managed to punch into unconsciousness after all. It probably didn't help he was covered in weapons that clacked and rang out against his body as he moved.

His first attempt to step towards the child had ended with the boy screaming past the gag as he scrambled away from Athos. The man had halted his advance, the fear in the boy's eyes freezing his blood. He wasn't good with children when they looked at him while so terrified. All that would come to mind was little Charles crying as he shifted bruised ribs.

He'd settled for sitting on the opposite end of the room in an attempt to prove that he wasn't a threat to the child. The boy continued to watch him fearfully as his eyes darted towards the open door as the sounds of moving men echoed through the halls. He was scared. Athos understood that but it worried him that the boy wouldn't allow anyone near.

Porthos skidded to a halt at the door, eyes frenzied. Athos glanced at him silently. Porthos was panting as he rattled off that they'd caught the last few men and that Therron was complaining for them to leave. Athos' jaw clenched at the mention of Therron but he remained silent. He wasn't planning on leaving without the child before him.

"Athos," Porthos pressed. "Did you hear me?"

Athos held up a hand for Porthos to be silent. The man frowned at him and leaned into the doorway. As soon as he saw the child however, he leaned back and ground out a curse through his teeth. Athos allowed Porthos to mutter and growl as he continued to watch the boy.

A scratching sound pulled his attentions to the window. As he stood, he pulled his pistol from his holster as the noise only grew. He raised the weapon as a gloved hand clasped about the sill of the open window.

"Easy Athos," Porthos called. "It's just d'Art."

Sure enough, d'Art's head popped up, that blinding smile on his face.

"Hey!" the young man laughed as he dragged himself into the room. Athos lowered the gun, his eyes fixed on the cat-like movements of the young man. D'Art's lithe form seemed to have been made for this sort of thing, his torso weaving in strange 's' shapes as he tossed his legs over the sill and slipped into the room.

"Should have known you'd show up," Porthos muttered.

"Of course I showed up," d'Art sneered as he moved to untie the boy with deft hands. "I had a feeling Therron hadn't followed my instructions to not touch children." The boy threw his arms around d'Art's shoulders, sobbing with violent hiccups.

Athos stared at d'Art as he cradled the child to his torso. The scene brought other memories to mind; ones of himself and a boy in the spring sunlight. He shook his head with a sigh.

"Hence _why_ you preferred we made out arrest here," he supplied as he holstered his weapon.

"Exactly," d'Art said as he moved to the door, the boy secured in his arms. "Hope you don't mind my using you guys like this."

"Was it necessary?" Porthos asked as he moved out of the way of the young man.

"What sort of question is that?" d'Art asked. "Therron can't be left alone in civilized society."

"He won't do well in prison," Athos mumbled.

"I don't think I care how he does in a place he belongs."

* * *

A few days passed before Athos saw d'Art again. He wasn't sure how to approach the young man though, considering the events from the last time he'd seen d'Art. The Regiment had been congratulated on the apprehension of not only men dealing in illegal weapons but also a man who would abuse children.

The Queen had been oddly vocal on her dislike of Therron, asking the king to not be lenient in his judgment. Therron was likely to be executed for his crimes along with the men he'd been meeting with. No one was happy with what happened on Easter Sunday and Therron's preferences had only put salt in the wounds.

D'Art had been yelled at by Tréville as well for not being forthright with his wishes on the arrest's place of occurrence. Or at least, that was what Athos had heard from Aramis who'd apparently witnessed the heated exchange. Porthos had argued it was probably one sided, for d'Art wouldn't raise his voice over something he'd apologized for. Athos himself had asked Tréville about the exchange and was left…as confused as Tréville had sounded.

The Captain, while angered someone had used them in such a way, was glad Therron was gone. He was also impressed by d'Art's resourcefulness and keen sense. Tréville had voice a hope that the boy would wish to become a Musketeer, though he wasn't expecting such a hope to become realized.

"Athos," d'Art said with a soft voice as he sat at the table in the training yard across from the older man.

"d'Art," Athos replied as he sipped at a goblet. He wished it was wine but he wasn't that lucky. "Any plans for the day?"

"Maybe," d'Art chuckled, his chin dragging the scarf up a bit. Athos tensed at the low gleam of a chain under the scarf. It was too large to be the one he remembered but it still tugged at him.

"Well," Athos muttered. "If you're going to hang around, you may want to tell Tréville. He prefers the recruits be the closest things to outsiders as possible."

"Is that an offer?" the boy chuckled, his brown eyes glowing with a mischievous glint that made Athos' stomach churn.

"Only if you tell Tréville what you're planning on doing with your life."

The boy smiled at him. "I'll do that then."

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	18. Commodities: Part 1

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**It's dead week starting...now. No promises will be made - I have yet to re-watch "The Good Soldier" for this story. Also, my question on how intimate you all want the boys to be still stands. They can be brothers or they can have a bit more dependency on touch. Choice is yours readers.**

* * *

D'Artagnan had been hearing rumors on the streets about the king wishing to speak to someone about breaking a trade treaty. Charlotte had been the one to confirm it for him though a few days prior, her mouth set in a thin line as she spoke. She wasn't sure why this 'Bonnaire' person was so infamous but apparently, he was said to have many enemies.

He wasn't exactly happy when Aramis and Porthos told him who they were to bring to Paris the following morning. He'd offered to come along, expressing continued wishes to prove himself like Porthos had all those years back. The two of them were pleased with his offer, immediately informing Tréville he was joining them and Athos on the journey.

Le Harve was a loud, dingy place with people overflowing from the brickwork about him. The salt air was making the paint on the buildings peel while the people seemed to exude a barrier of roughness as they walked along the narrow docks. He'd spotted Bonnaire as the man disembarked from a ship, wondering at the two men who began tailing the man as soon as they'd recognized him. He pressed the palm of his hand to the pommel of his sword as Bonnaire slipped into a pub. He had a sinking feeling he would prefer to keep his mouth shut for this trip but wouldn't be able to…as usual.

"Drinks for the whole house!" Bonnaire yelled at the door of the pub.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes before he too stepped into the pub. He spotted Athos and Porthos at a table in a corner, their eyes narrowed at the rather boisterous crowd, and strode towards where Aramis was sitting. He sank into the chair, trying to will his stomach to stop falling. He could see Athos whispering to Porthos as the two of them stared towards where Bonnaire was wooing a pretty serving maid over a feather of sorts.

"Seduced by a feather? Really?" he muttered as he watched the idiot man before him.

"Anyone can tell a woman she's beautiful," Aramis whispered. "Making her _believe_ it, it where the genius lies."

While d'Art wasn't wholly convinced that Aramis wasn't at least a little impressed with the man's skills at wooing, he was aware of the men in the tavern who seemed too preoccupied with signaling each other. Athos and Porthos were speaking to each other again, Porthos casually looking over his shoulder at the two new men in black who'd just entered.

His mind raced over the group about them. One at the door, one at another table, one behind Porthos and Athos, and the two newcomers. One man had a chain from what he could see and the men in black looked as well armed as any Musketeer he'd met. He could just see having to fight through those men while dragging Bonnaire along with them when one of the men began to stand. Aramis pursed his lips, his shoulders sagging.

"ÉMILE!"

_Oh no_, d'Artagnan thought as his eyes swung to the door to find a dark haired woman standing there with an enraged look on her face.

Émile Bonnaire had the same thought run through his mind apparently as he scrambled away from the serving girl. The new woman unsheathed a knife and Aramis' arm flew to touch d'Artagnan's chest as he tried to rise. The Spaniard shook his head as d'Artagnan fell back to the seat, his body leaning back to watch the show.

"I wanna see how this plays out," Aramis said with a dangerous waggle of his brow, a smile carving over his face.

The woman outright attacked the serving girl, food and drink exploding into the air as they swung at each other. The woman managed to get the girl onto the table, knife at her throat, and hissed at Bonnaire that she'd kill him. He asked her to calm herself, calling her darling and claiming it too early in the morning. A shot rang out from under his table, one of his would-have-been attackers screaming as the charge went through his knee.

_Hidden weapons_, d'Artagnan thought ruefully. _This is going to be one of _those_ missions_. He tripped the next attacker, he and Aramis shooting to their feet as the man toppled to the ground. Porthos slammed the next attacker into a pillar as the woman brandished her knife about in wide arcs as she tried to place the next attack.

"You stay away too!" the woman screamed at Aramis as he sauntered around her, d'Artagnan shoving their hapless victim off on his way.

"A moment ago, you wanted to kill him," Aramis said, an arm waving at Bonnaire as he looked at the woman incredulously.

"I have the right. You don't!"

She moved to stab him only to have her hand caught, her body spun, and then shoved into d'Artagnan's arms. The young man wrapped his arms around her shoulders as she squirmed and screamed at him to let her go. He finally did when she bit his hand. Porthos was laughing. He glared at Aramis in promise of restitution that _would_ be paid.

Bonnaire hopped down from the table, thanking the four of them for their help. Athos promptly arrested him with the same cool grace he used to handle all affairs. Porthos unloaded the man of his weapons as Athos told him who he was and why they were there. Bonnaire tried to reason his way out, using business as his excuse only to have Athos shoot it down.

"What about her?" d'Artagnan asked, inclining his head towards the woman who had bitten him.

"_I_ have a name," she stated as she glared at Bonnaire. "It is Maria Bonnaire!"

"Gentlemen," Émile said, "my wife!"

"That explains a lot," Aramis said with a rueful smile as Porthos chuckled.

There was a question about if Émile had any hidden weapons from Porthos, the larger man continuing his search of the man's body. Bonnaire claimed he never carried concealed weapons right at Porthos found a gun. The two men in black handed Porthos the rounded case Bonnaire had been carrying, offering worry over valuables. Bonnaire consented to come with them then.

"Oh um!" Bonnaire said, spinning around to face them again. He spoke to Athos who was the closest at the moment of his turn. "Grant me one last favor before we go. A few moments alone with my wife?"

The young street rat chuckled through is nose.

"You must think we're stupid," d'Artagnan said, looking around to his friends in hopes that he was right. Aramis shrugged at him while Porthos smiled with a grunt and Athos said nothing.

"Terribly sorry," the young man said. "Apparently, we _are_."

"I must have your guarantee you won't try to escape Monsieur," Athos stated.

"You have my _word_ on it," Bonnaire declared. D'Artagnan wasn't going to hold his breath on _that_ statement. Porthos raised his brows in interest at the declaration in what could only be descried as a silent question of 'oh really now?'

"As a gentleman," Bonnaire assured.

D'Artagnan's stomach continued to sink.

* * *

Athos was a bit impressed at the couple's acting skills. They were apparently very much in love with each other to have planned a fight that elaborate to try to shake off their 'admirers' as well as place themselves in a position to fake having relations just so Bonnaire could attempt to sneak out a window.

Too bad Porthos was much better than Émile was.

Porthos was in charge of the cart while Bonnaire sat next to him. Athos was on horseback, in the rear of their column as Aramis took the lead and d'Art rode between Athos and the cart.

As they rode, the column changing as they went, it was d'Art's back Athos found himself gazing at. He'd made it a personal mission of his own to stop looking for similarities between little Charles – he had to use the lad's first name to differentiate – and d'Art. His heart couldn't take any further pain and stress over believing he was reunited with a child who was far more than likely dead. Not that it really mattered though; d'Art had wormed his way into Athos' graces and brought the man new concerns every day.

After the incident with Vadim, Athos had found himself coming clean to the young man that Porthos had given his name one night. He'd mentioned his own d'Artagnan as well in a strange show of sharing that he'd thought he'd become incapable of having.

The boy's expression that night, however, haunted him. How could someone that young look so utterly heartbroken by being told they reminded someone of another? Athos had wondered if something in his voice had given his worries over Charles away but he knew that couldn't be it. He was damned good at keeping his voice rock steady no matter what occasion – though mentioning little Charles _had_ made his heart tie itself into shriveling knots.

There had been something that had made the boy's eyes cloud with tears that, as far as Athos could tell, had remained unshed over the last month and a half. Nothing had changed as far as d'Art showing up at the garrison for his usual practice bouts with the three of them. There were moments when Athos would arrive early and find the boy speaking with Tréville on the balcony or with one of the two girls they always saw the boy with outside of the gates.

The incident he'd witnessed two weeks after Vadim's death had given him a fright though. Finding the three of his companions huddled in the back of the stables, spreading salve over the youngest's wrists and re-bandaging heavily damaged skin, had not been what Athos had expected. D'Art's determination for the other two to not tell him had stung.

They hadn't shared a word about it with Athos and he hadn't been told about the incident by any of them. He kept his knowledge of it secret as well though, the implications had stayed in the forefront of his mind. They'd been on the other side of that wall when it had been blown apart and d'Art had been tied to the barrels? The thought terrified him. He couldn't stand to lose another friend without knowing how he'd done so.

It had also been a shock that d'Art had been anywhere near a person like Therron – a man of whom made Athos' stomach grind into knots at the thought of that damned name. Yet, d'Art had handled the situation with nothing more than a slight frown at the man who'd broken his rules.

He'd told Tréville that if the boy decided to become a Musketeer, he' be more than happy to sponsor him. Tréville had only given him a knowing smile.

"You know, we could probably _walk _to Paris faster than this," d'Art muttered to him as they rode side by side. Bonnaire was chattering to Porthos who was showing far more patience than Athos had anticipated. "Ditch that wagon we might make _progress_."

"Bonnaire hopes his exotic gifts will soften the king's mood," Athos explained, earning a breathy chuckle from the boy on his right. "It costs us nothing to humor him."

The wagon ahead went quieter as Bonnaire broached the subject of Porthos' origins. Athos could just make out Porthos speaking of his mother, moving to Paris after being freed, to the man. That had been a story Athos hadn't heard until his second year back from home. Porthos was being very gentle with this man for bringing up slaves in his presence considering Bonnaire had yet to go flying off the wagon. Porthos had explained _once_ that he'd lived on his own since he was five and that had been due to Aramis getting him drunk and coaxing him to explain why he'd hurled a man out of a window for calling him a name Athos would rather not repeat.

"We're being followed!" Aramis yelled as he cantered up from behind them. "Two men dressed in black. About a mile behind."

"The men from the inn?" Athos asked. Aramis gave an affirmative. "What are they waiting for?"

Their modest column pulled to a halt before a building that looked to have stables and multiple housings within it under Athos' command to remain off the road to lose the men from before. It didn't take long for him to wish he hadn't decided to stop as Aramis stiffened at the sound of rustling metal. Porthos remained near the wagon and Bonnaire as Athos waited for Aramis to give a signal. Their swords were out in a flash, guns ready, when Aramis bellowed for whoever was there to come out.

"That was very formal," Athos jabbed.

"I like to be polite," Aramis said with a soft smile as a man with an axe came sneaking around from behind him.

"Aramis!" d'Art yelled, pointing at the attacker. Athos simply shot the man dead without thinking. No one snuck up on his men.

"Ambush!"

And then they were surrounded, the clang of metal on metal ringing through the air as they dealt with the onslaught. Athos managed to bellow at Porthos to stay with Bonnaire as they fought, his eyes drifting to where d'Art was fighting.

The boy slipped from sword to a wooden staff with a simple twist of his body, the staff wrenched from its original owner's hands and used against their attackers. He spotted Aramis fighting with his usual grace though the man hissed as a chain slammed against his back. Aramis would bruise but he'd live. A few men slipped past them, racing for Bonnaire but Porthos dispatched them with ease.

Athos let himself focus on his own battles, his blade snaking out at his attackers while his free hand slammed them away with biting force. The men were lucky he wore his signet ring backwards so the sigil would press against my palm and was hidden from anyone who didn't need to know who he really was. Not everyone in the regiment was like him after all.

It took Aramis screaming Porthos' name to gain his attentions again, his stomach falling at the sight on one of his men on the ground and unmoving. Aramis had wrapped the chain around a man's throat, dragging the man from Porthos' prone body with a roar.

"That's enough!" a man yelled from the stable door. The men around them stilled and Athos glared at the newcomer. He was tired of these surprises.

"I have no argument with you! Only with _him_!"

"Gentlemen! Allow me to introduce my business partner!" Bonnaire called. "Paul Moneir."

_If this is another act I swear I will shoot Émile Bonnaire myself_, Athos thought. The King's Business be hanged!

"On the face of it, I'd say your _partnership_ isn't going well!" Aramis yelled from where he was kneeling by Porthos, his belt tied around the man's shoulder.

The newcomer went on to explain his involvement with Émile which was mostly funding for eight years only to have no cargo on Émile's ship. Athos gave his condolences on the loss but explained that the King had asked for Bonnaire's presence. The argument ended when Aramis pointed his gun and ordered Paul to have his men back off.

In private, Athos assured the man he'd inform the Cardinal of his claims against Bonnaire. D'Art stood behind Bonnaire as the two men spoke, both listening as Athos warned Paul against scouts.

"What scouts?"

"Two men in black. They've been on our tails since Le Harve."

"Not mine," the man admitted, his tone sincere. "I'm not the only one with a score to settle with Émile Bonnaire."

They regrouped around Aramis and Porthos, the latter trying to keep his breathing normal as Aramis fixed his arm still. Aramis explained in a hushed tone as he pulled booze from the wagon that the wound needed needlework, soon. Something settled in the pit of Athos' stomach. He knew how far they were from Paris but he didn't want to stop…_there_.

"Will he make it to Paris?" Athos asked in a calm tone that surprised him.

Porthos screamed as Aramis settled a cloth against the gaping wound and the man's pauldron.

"He won't make it to the next village unless I get a chance to sew up that wound," Aramis said as he bustled about.

"We should leave the road and look for shelter," d'Art stated, his eyes darting towards his fallen friend. Athos didn't have time to feel jealous over the three's relationship at that moment.

"Not here," he insisted. "We'll ride on for a few miles and _then_ find somewhere."

"Porthos isn't fit to ride," Aramis said breathlessly.

"Get him on the cart," Athos commanded d'Art, his hand smacking against the boy's arm as he spoke.

"Didn't you hear what I said?!" Aramis yelled. "If we don't operate soon, he'll die."

Athos tried to ignore the panicked flash in d'Art's eyes at Aramis' statement.

"We'll wait 'til it's dark," Athos said, turning away only to be yanked back by Aramis.

"What's the _matter_ with you?" Aramis yelled into his face. "Don't you care about Porthos?"

"Alright," he ground out. "I know somewhere. Nearby."

"Why didn't you mention it before?" d'Art asked. Athos didn't answer him.

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	19. Commodities: Part 2

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**It's finals week starting...now. No promises will be made.**

* * *

Porthos didn't remember the ride through the little town of Le Fère, though d'Art assured him it was as pretty and quaint as a town could get. Porthos didn't buy it though, not with the misty look that crossed the boy's face as he claimed it was like no other township he knew of. He didn't remember being dragged into the mansion in which he currently sat, waiting for his friends to return.

There was a hazy memory, deafened by his own heavy breathing to ignore the pain in his shoulder, of Bonnaire suggesting he'd buy the place and Athos telling him it wasn't for sale. He remembered asking for something to take the edge off, Athos offering wine, and Bonnaire claiming to have something better.

There was another hazy memory of d'Art asking Athos how he knew about this place while Porthos had busied himself on the drink from the Colonies. Athos' hesitating admission to owning the place would have shocked Porthos had his shoulder not been screaming. The chatter overhead about how well Aramis could sew went over his head, though d'Art's pointed comment on how the tour of Porthos' scars would bloody damned well wait sat well with Porthos.

He did remember Athos' fist connecting with his jaw as he lay on his stomach on a table.

He'd woken to booze being shoved in his face on his request and his arm tied to his side with long strips of cloth. He'd let Bonnaire chatter away again about a utopia. Bonnaire thought he'd farm tabaco and retire fat and happy but d'Art assured him farming was all hard work. Porthos had wondered at the young man as Bonnaire claimed labor to be cheap and how he'd run the farm. He knew a bit about d'Art's home, a farming village, but not much else. Surely, d'Art had been too young to help out before he'd ended up in Paris.

Bonnaire had offered them passage with him to the Colonies, to become rich and famous before Athos came in to ask how he was. When it was decided that he would probably be able to leave the next day, Athos declared they'd leave in the morning. Porthos hadn't let on that he'd been far more aware of Athos' earlier conversation with Aramis over where they would stop to treat him than they'd thought.

The way d'Art had thrown passing glances at him though, told him the boy was certain he'd heard _every_ word. Bonnaire had gone off to claim Athos would probably love spending the night back home, with his memories. Another sneaking glance from d'Art told Porthos that he'd noticed something about those memories that shouldn't be touched on.

Trust d'Artagnan to notice a man's unhappiness before anyone else in the room.

That morning, he'd woken with a stiff jaw, the ebbing pulse of a punch catching his interest as d'Art shoved his boots on across from him.

"Did someone punch me?" he'd asked, his eyes sliding up and down d'Art's lithe form. He could appreciate the way the boy had grown even if he wished that d'Art wouldn't hide behind the scarf Aramis had given him.

"Don't be ridiculous!" the boy chuckled as he settled his foot into his boots before standing. "I'll go fetch some water."

He'd heard Athos and d'Art speaking about vandals and someone called Thomas in another room, the large house echoing everything as if to catch up on all the years spent in silence. A death was mentioned and Porthos heard d'Art give condolences. He hadn't asked when the boy returned with water. He just drank and let the boy go about his business, strapping his leathers around his waist.

He and Bonnaire had talked over the man's next trip, making sure the load would be evenly distributed. Bonnaire called him a 'self-taught man,' though he used a fancier term that Porthos couldn't see himself using, when Porthos asked to see with the intention of teaching himself something new. Bonnaire hid the documents he'd been going over away, claiming his eyes to be tired.

His wife had shown up then, claiming injury only to aim a gun at d'Art and stealing the man away in a flurry of movement that Porthos couldn't follow in his current state. He was lucky he could limp through the pain lacing through him. He'd been left in the mansion, waiting for his friends to return.

He'd limped back inside, teeth grinding in his frustration. He'd glared at the family crest that sat over the mantelpiece, part of him thinking it looked awfully familiar. The paint had faded but Porthos could see the pale echo of blue symbolizing truth and loyalty over the embattled line on the bottom quarter of the crest that sat under a red heraldic lion for strength of a warrior. Two crossed swords slid behind the shield section symbolizing honor and justice. He blamed the booze and the pain for his incapability to not remember as he'd stumbled to the table where Bonnaire's papers still sat.

He'd looked at them. That had been his mistake. The men form the inn had been right about not leaving it in the wrong hands.

The lot of them had returned with Bonnaire limping for a reason that Porthos found himself not caring about as he roared at the man, calling him swine. He managed a punch to the man's face and managed to slam him back into the table before d'Art and Athos wrestled him away.

"No!" d'Art yelled. "What are you doing?"

"I can explain!" Bonnaire cried.

"I'm going to kill him!" Porthos roared.

He kicked in a wild arc at the man on the floor, Athos screaming his name before the stiches on his back ripped audibly. He screamed through his teeth at the pain but kept wrestling forward. Pain be damned, he was going to kill the damned slave merchant before him if it killed him.

Aramis hissed, a fist rising to his mouth. "There goes my needlework."

"PORTHOS! Enough!" Athos yelled as he stilled, the pain winning out. "What's going on?"

Porthos held a shaking hand up to point at the plans he'd thrown aside, telling them to look at them with a shaking voice that couldn't rise above a whisper. Aramis picked up the papers, his face paling at the images in his hands.

"Men. Women. Children," Porthos ground out, each word punching the air like weapons punching through cloth. "It's a slave ship."

"The drawings make it look far worse than it really is," Bonnaire tried to reason. Porthos shoved away from Athos to pull another from the pile. One that had drawings of the people stacked so closely together they couldn't move.

"I envied him. Boasting how he was going to farm tabaco, how labor is cheap out there," Porthos growled as d'Art and Athos held him back again. "It isn't cheap labor is it Bonnaire; it's stolen labor. Stolen _lives_!"

"I am not a prejudiced man!" Bonnaire cried. "This is strictly business!"

"The business of misery and suffering?"

"It's our duty to protect him," Athos said. Porthos shoved him away.

"Turning a blind eye to his crimes?" Porthos hissed.

"Slavery is cruel and disgusting," Athos admitted. "But," Porthos gripped his collar, "it's not a crime."

"I heard stories about those ships as a child," Porthos admitted. He'd done more than that really, d'Art's steady hand on his chest the only reassurance he had that he had told someone in this room what his mother had told him.

"Hellish stories," he continued. "Know why they're shackled? Hm?"

"To stop them from jumping overboard," d'Artagnan said, his voice cutting through the room like a hot blade through skin. Aramis looked away from them, his stomach turning his face green as it turned. Porthos, while it hurt him to remember how d'Art had come to learn of his stories, was overjoyed someone else knew.

"Because…it's better," the boy finished. "Better than watching friends, family, children die around you of starvation and sickness."

"And hopelessness," Porthos added as he stared at the floor and his feet. D'Art's hand remained still on his chest, a comforting weight keeping him grounded.

He could remember the night he'd admitted all those horrors to the boy, apologizing to him for adding something to fear to his young life. He hadn't meant to wake in a cold sweat from old imaginings of his mother's horror stories as a teenager, let alone one so close to eighteen. Yet, he had and the little boy who could still only whisper to others had been there, holding his head to a tiny chest and murmuring to him.

"You'll get you justice Porthos," Aramis stated. "The King will see to that."

Aramis was obviously angered over the revelation of who they were dealing with and how it tied to his friend. Porthos could only hope the man wouldn't fault him for not telling of those stories until now while d'Art knew everything about them. He didn't think he could deal with a friend leaving him after learning of this…darkness of humans that haunted him.

He ended up sitting by as Bonnaire dug a hole for his wife who'd been killed shortly after she'd ridden off with him. Porthos had voiced his belief that Émile had a shopping list, which was admitted to. Bonnaire had the gall to claim he offered a better life to the people he was buying.

"Men were born free," Porthos growled. "No one has the right to make slaves of them."

"Yes but the real world isn't run that way now is it? It's run on economics and I'm a trader…I deal in commodities."

"A _man_ is _not_ a commodity."

They buried the woman with a few other snarls thrown at each other before Porthos stormed off. He was overly done with this slave trader and his crocodile tears. He didn't care if Aramis gave a sweet prayer. He didn't care how quite d'Art had fallen since speaking – it was expected from the lad to be silent after such a long speech. He didn't care what Athos was hiding from in that house. He was done.

* * *

D'Artagnan found Athos standing under a tree not far from the house. His throat throbbed from the silent sobbing that had taken place as they'd gone to fetch Madame Bonnaire from the road. Aramis hadn't said anything to him about it, his own eyes misted over from emotions that should have been left alone in their caverns within a person's heart.

It had been years since anything related to slavery had crossed d'Artagnan's mind. Twenty-three if he remembered correctly, and here it was, tearing his friend apart all over again. It was ripping his elder brother into pieces and he found he was just as powerless to stop it now as he had been then. He couldn't even patch the wounds up this time for it had cut into him just as badly.

"What are you doing?" he asked Athos, wishing to be on the road and get Bonnaire out of their hands as quickly as possible. He wasn't a Musketeer yet. He knew this and the temptation to make one thing in his brother's life go as he wished was becoming too powerful.

"There's someone I need to see in the village," Athos said.

"Let me come with you then," he offered. Anything to stay away from Émile Bonnaire. "You've been…different. Ever since we got here."

"Keep an eye on Porthos," Athos said as he stumbled off, drunken arcs of his arms swinging about as he continued to command. "Don't leave him alone with Bonnaire."

"Where-?"

"Get on the road! Get Bonnaire to Paris!"

Swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat over the wrong atmosphere that was seeping from Athos and the fear of what he'd be tempted to do back in the mansion, d'Artagnan returned to his friends. They – Aramis and Porthos – argued Bonnaire into submission on leaving the blasted wagon there, ignoring the man's wish to bring the king a gift.

Porthos wished to wait for Athos, Aramis calm in the idea that Athos would catch up when he was ready. D'Artagnan didn't have the same confidence in the eldest of their group at the moment though and voiced it by agreeing with Porthos. Aramis told him to trust Athos to handle his personal affairs.

He wanted to. But the last day and a half of Athos hiding in the manor, the painting of a woman whose face was hidden by cuts in the panel, and the revelation of Athos having a brother had his stomach sinking lower than Bonnaire's stunts had. Also, that crest over the mantel piece had confirmed d'Artagnan's belief that this truly was the man he'd loved as a brother before his family was killed.

He knew that crest the moment he'd seen it and things had begun to make sense to him. He remembered the signet ring that his father had told him to never touch without Athos' permission. The signet ring he knew Athos still wore. He'd stared at the trinket on his neck often enough to have the image on its face engrained on his memory for all time. He knew who Athos was, and even though the man seemed unable to recognize him, he wasn't going to lose all faith in him.

The last two days, however, were beginning to make his faith and love shake.

"Aramis, I'm going back."

That had been all he'd said before turning around and kicking his horse off into a canter before Aramis could stop him. He charged the horse through the woods, over the river, and onto the road where they'd killed the Spanish agent. He thundered through the village, people dodging out of his way as he went.

He skidded the horse to a halt before the mansion when the orange of flames burned at his eyes in the darkness. He took as much time as he dared to dismount and tie the horse off somewhere safe, ripping the scarf from his neck and tossing it over the saddle, before racing up to the house.

"ATHOS! Athos can you hear me?"

The fourth time he'd screamed Athos' name, a rider went screaming away on horseback. He almost followed before he noted the rider wasn't male and he had yet to hear Athos call out in reply. He rushed into the building, screaming Athos' name through the haze of smoke and flame. When he found him, the man was lying on the ground of the sun room, coughing and gaging on smoke and reeking of wine.

"It's me. It's d'Artagnan," he yelled over the roar of the flames. He no longer cared about his name being given to the man. Athos knew it already and Athos was as much a brother to him as ever. He, like Aramis and Porthos, were people he could trust with his name.

"Get up. Get UP!" he screamed.

When he received no response, he hauled the man up by his collar, leather biting at his fingers as flames licked at his back. He shook Athos, calling for the man to come to his senses. He was rewarded by Athos' ring grazing his collarbone as the man flailed to get away from his grip, leaving a burn behind on his olive skin. Aramis was going to kill him if he got that infected.

"God damn it," he ground out. He shook the man again. "OLIVIER!"

Athos' eyes flared open, an awareness filling them. D'Artagnan screamed at him to rise, relief filling him as Athos shoved himself drunkenly to his feet. He dragged the man to his feet and out of the burning mansion. He planted the man on the cool grass outside the front doors, racing to get his pouch of water.

"What happened? Who was that woman?" he asked as he wiped the water he'd dumped onto the man's face away from skin. He was panting, his throat raw from the smoke. Athos looked no better than he felt.

"Ever since…thought I was imagining it," Athos blubbered through the wine.

"_Who_?" d'Artagnan begged, hands gripping Athos' coat desperately.

"My wife," Athos said through a moan. "She died five years ago…By my orders. She was a murderer so I had her taken from our home and hung from the branch of a tree."

D'Artagnan didn't like the far off look in Athos' eyes as the man gazed at the flames. It was like he wanted to jump into them. He yanked Athos around to face him.

"Look at me, _LOOK_ at _me_!" d'Artagnan screamed. "You're telling me that the ghost of your wife is trying to kill you?"

"She's not dead…she survived."

"Revenge," d'Artagnan whispered as Athos bowed his head.

"It was my duty," Athos hissed, his hands gripping d'Artagnan's coat and shaking the young man. "It was _my_ duty to uphold the _law_! My duty to condemn her, the woman I loved, to death! I clung to the idea that I had no choice…five years learning to live without her."

He pulled away from d'Artagnan who could only stare at him with – what d'Artagnan hoped was – an unreadable expression.

"What do I do now?" Athos whispered beseechingly.

They sat there in the darkness, the heat of the burning mansion keeping them warm. Athos lay on the grass, crying in silence as d'Artagnan sat next to him. Neither spoke to the other, too wrapped up in their own cares. D'Artagnan wondered over the woman who'd earned such devotion from the man who lay next to him, jealous that she'd been lucky enough to have time with Athos. He was sorry for Athos' loss, he was, but…Athos probably hadn't even heard of what happened in Gascony what with his duties and love life going to hell.

He forced himself to think of Porthos again, his hand trailing to the chain on his neck. Even the memory of Porthos waking in a cold sweat screaming in fear of a boogeyman he'd never have to physically face was an image that comforted him at that moment. As badly as that memory – alone or accompanied with the recent events with Bonnaire – cut into him, it didn't hurt as badly as Athos' not knowing who was sitting by his side.

It was a numbness that spread over d'Artagnan as the night wore on, the mansion burning to ashes before him like his home in Lupiac. Even that memory was comforting right now.

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	20. Commodities: Part 3

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**It's finals week. No promises will be made.**

* * *

Aramis was impressed at the gall Bonnaire had to ask for dignity that was 'common to every man' before meeting the king. He had the gall to do it in front of Porthos, claiming he had rights, the rights of every man. Though, he had to point out the irony of those words. He was met with a thickly put on line from Bonnaire that the man was out of the slavery business and it was thanks to their inspiration.

"You'd say just about anything to save your own skin," Porthos chuckled though the growl from earlier was still underneath his good humor.

It was probably a good thing that d'Artagnan had rushed off with barely any warning. He wasn't really bound to the duty of a Musketeer. He was an information runner who spent time around the Musketeers and Aramis had seen what that boy tended to do to people he didn't like. The lucky ones were ignored. The unlucky ones disappeared with tails between their legs. It was a bit of a wonder the boy was still as free as any bachelor what with the two girls who hung about him but Aramis knew he hadn't taught the boy all there was to know about wooing yet.

The three of them rode in silence the rest of the way through Paris after Porthos smacked Bonnaire's donkey onwards.

They'd waited outside after giving their reports to the Cardinal, hoping the man would go far enough with his charging of Bonnaire. However, Bonnaire came out with a skip in his step and an announcement that only served to darken Porthos' moods again. Aramis held his friend's uninjured shoulder as Bonnaire left on his new venture, funded by the Cardinal himself, as he prayed for a miracle.

* * *

Constance was cleaning when she got the unexpected guest of Milady de Winter asking for material for a new dress. The woman had called her a maid due to her youth and continued to insinuate that she had an interest in her lodger.

While she could admit that d'Art was handsome in a devilish way, she'd seen him with his two friends. The blonde was a cheery thing that hung on his arms whenever they were free – and even when they weren't. The redhead was a spirited thing with sharp eyes that always seemed to know which window Constance was gazing out of.

Something inside her warned to not mention those girls though as the woman continued to insinuate things about d'Art. Slightly intimate relations? Maternal interest? What was this woman on about? How did she even know how desperate Constance's husband was for money?

A chill went through her as the woman left. Yes, it was for the best she hadn't mentioned d'Art's friends. Now, if only her heart would slow down at the accusation of taking d'Art as her lover.

* * *

Athos had been a bit surprised at the glimpse of d'Art's neck that he received that morning. It was before the boy slipped his scarf back on and Athos had almost questioned what the chain carried and who'd given it to him. Instead, he'd asked about the burn he'd spotted, earning a dark look from the boy. The look got even darker when he asked about the jagged scar he'd noticed.

Any further questions he'd wanted to ask died on his tongue at that look as if he knew he was being blamed for something he'd done or had failed to do. He didn't like the turning his stomach that suggested it was something he'd failed to do that had earned him that look.

They'd ridden in silence to Paris until they spotted the second man in all black. Athos offered to go and speak with the man, quickly asking d'Art to not mention what had happened. The boy gave his word before riding off in search of a change of clothes.

He found the man aiming a musket at Bonnaire near the Cardinal's place of office. He pressed the barrel of his own gun against the man's neck and asked to talk. He found that Spain wanted Bonnaire for crimes against the treaty pact. The Spanish wanted Bonnaire's activities in the Colonies to end. However, the Cardinal was apparently supporting the man now.

It was easy talking his men into going back to Le Harve for the idiot scheme to call in Paul, the business partner, a few other men, and the Spanish spy they'd left alive. The set up was easy. Paul was to bring the men to set up a situation for them to claim protection over the idiot slaver only to have Porthos – rightfully – ask why they were doing so and end up fighting Aramis. Athos had d'Art run Bonnaire off to a ship in the harbor where the spy was waiting to arrest him.

D'Art returned to a silent bar as Athos handed Paul the key to Bonnaire's warehouse, asking for them to remain silent over the treasonous acts they'd just committed. They left in amiable company, toasting for Bonnaire to have a long and boring time in his new cell. Athos wished he could right all wrongs were as easily as he left d'Art to take up the rear of their column home.

He didn't notice d'Art look over his shoulder at a woman with dark hair and green eyes, her finger lifted to her lips at the boy with a smile. He did notice how the boy was suddenly even quieter than he had been on the way back from La Fère. He tried to ignore it as Porthos called the boy up to join him and Aramis in a solid hug, chaste kisses being bestowed on foreheads between them.

They fell asleep in an inn near the outskirts of Le Harve, sharing a large room between them. He was sharing with Aramis while Porthos had been allowed the use of the entirety of the other bed. D'Art was in the chair of the room, promising he'd be fine there. It decided to rain at some point that night, the thunder stirring Athos awake as it brought up memories of another storm he'd sat in five years ago. His eyes fluttered open, finding Porthos sitting up in bed.

The man had his head leaning against d'Art's shoulder, the hand that wasn't tied to his side running up and down the boy's arm and body as if to ensure he was there. The boy had taken off his jacket, his shirt untucked. The scarf was hanging on the chair behind him, the chain on his neck glittering in the sparse light of the distant lightning. D'Art's hands were on Porthos' knees, his breathing calm as Porthos spoke to him.

"Aramis is going to kill you," Porthos whispered.

"I know that…Haven't had time to tell him yet is all," d'Art admitted in just as soft a voice.

Porthos lifted his head a bit, his hand tracing over d'Art's collarbone with fingertip light touches that still pulled a hiss from the boy's mouth. Porthos' gave him a wry smirk before he pressed his lips to the offending wound Athos couldn't see in the dim.

"He'll really kill me if it's infected Port," d'Art hissed, his fingers clenching in Porthos' trousers.

"Gonna tell us how you got this one?"

"…No."

Porthos' head jerked up, eyes blazing as his hand cupped the boy's face in a gentle hold.

"Why not?"

"…Made a promise."

Porthos sighed, his hand falling to lie against the boy's chest as his head pressed against d'Art's shoulder again.

"Don't be like Athos," Porthos whispered. "I can only handle one of him and…I can't lose another friend to that…distancing."

"Port…'Thos won't be as bad an influence as 'Mis," d'Art whispered as he cupped Porthos' face in his hands. He gave a small smile. "Don't worry about me."

"But…"

"I keep secrets to stay safe," he insisted. "Just like you taught me." He pressed his lips to Porthos' brow, his nose burying itself in the dark curls on Porthos' head. "Trust me," he whispered. "Please."

"I do," Porthos whispered as he pressed a kiss to d'Art's cheek. "I promise you that d'Artagnan. But I still want to know what burned you."

"Promise is a promise," d'Art whispered with a smile. "You should be sleeping."

"Help me?"

"You know I kick in my sleep."

"I'm told I snore."

"By me. And you do."

"Please d'Art?"

The boy smiled as he pushed Porthos down in a gentle manner. He crawled over the bed, curling up against Porthos' body as he pulled the covers over their bodies. The room lapsed into silence again as d'Art fell asleep in Porthos' arms, his head pressing into the crook under Porthos' chin as Porthos held him close with his uninjured hand splaying over half of the boy's lean back.

Athos forced his hand to release the mattress under him as he stared at them. He wanted to throttle Porthos for being so unguardedly intimate with the young man. He tried to reason it was normal for people who'd grown up with each other as the only family available on the streets but it chewed at him as he watched the two sleep so closely. It was like Porthos was touching something he couldn't, no matter how much he wanted to, and he wasn't sure why he wanted to hold d'Art close like he had Charles and Thomas.

A hand on his shoulder startled out of his dark thoughts, his body twisting violently to face Aramis. The Spaniard smiled wearily at him, like he'd expected such an occurrence to happen sooner or later.

"They do that," Aramis whispered with a sideways shrug. "They can't see each other as anything besides family and, like all families should, they hold each other together when times are rough…d'Art's good at patching people back together with words."

"How can you sound so sure?" Athos whispered, his mind registering something in Aramis' tone that made his stomach twist again.

"Porthos wasn't the one who knocked sense into me after Savoy," Aramis admitted. "And to be honest, the last two years have been rough without him to talk to."

"Talk to?"

"I've taught him shooting. Porthos taught him grappling. We kept him in practice on occasion over the years…" Aramis said with a misty look in his eyes. "But, we started sharing pains and fears and ended up doing that more often than not."

"Why not the last two years?"

Aramis frowned. "He wasn't in Paris…Radha and Charlotte didn't know where he was and…Porthos can't talk to anyone else who could have known…" He gave a heavy sigh. "But, he wasn't anywhere dangerous considering how he returned."

The memory of d'Art charging up to the two men Athos saw as his new brothers before he called Athos a thief came unbidden. He remembered the unhealthy look on the boy's face when he'd really looked at him, the way the boy's ribs had been bruised earlier that day but he hadn't learned of that until after he'd been saved. He remembered the way d'Art had gone about worming his way into Athos' good graces afterwards, his smile warming like the sun.

Further memories of Therron and how Aramis had asked about how d'Art's favors were held even when he wasn't seen. Aramis' blunt explanation however, made the twist in his stomach turn inside-out. It wasn't just the lack of a jovial tone that set him off either.

"Right," Athos murmured as he turned to face Porthos and d'Art again. "The burn's from my ring…It got heated because I was being a drunk idiot…"

"I see he's doing the same thing for you as he did for us," Aramis whispered, his tone betraying how he felt about Athos' confession. "Get some sleep. We'll need it for the ride home tomorrow morning."

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**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	21. Commodities: Part 4

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**It's finals week. No promises will be made.**

* * *

Returning to Paris had been uneventful to say the least. D'Art had remained quiet throughout the ride when he wasn't whispering to Porthos. The young man had found himself practically out of his mind as he ran through the last journey.

Two years away from Paris had left him out of the loops he'd set up within the town. His connection with Radha and Charlotte was a saving grace with their willingness to bring him back into the tangled webs the three of them had made over the years. The girls were loved by him as sisters – though he and Radha may have been more than that a few times. No one in Paris remained driven snow pure when they hit a specific age and with Aramis as an elder brother figure, it should have been expected d'Art would have let something go sooner or later. Also, life in the Court was a questionable affair on the best of days.

Something else nipped at the edges of his mind though. That something – someone if he was being honest with himself – only made things harder as they continued home. His mind was whirling from dealing with Bonnaire, digging up old memories of Porthos screaming himself awake as the sun set. As much as he had enjoyed being one of the few people who knew about those sleepless nights, those very nights once kept him up with worry over how Porthos would do away from those he trusted. That worry was the reason he had started following Porthos around Paris.

If he was to continue being honest with himself, that worry was from fearing he'd never see another person he loved like a brother. Oliver d'Athos was the first brother he'd ever had and d'Art missed him past all things. The loss of his home hurt little when the thought of Athos arriving the coming spring only to find the farm gone and everyone dead.

Having Porthos as another brother had eased the pain of loss a bit though it brought new stripes of it. Porthos' fears of slavers, fears for his friends, and over protective qualities around those he cared for had led d'Art to worry Porthos would die young from something stupid. Porthos' joining the Musketeers had been a revelation to d'Art. The young man had known it would be a dangerous job but it would also come with something Porthos longed for; a family that didn't need to cheat its way through living.

Aramis was a good addition to their ragtag family, bringing his own baggage of pain and sorrow that d'Art had yet to hold to his chest as dearly as he held Porthos' secrets as well as Athos'. He knew a few things about Aramis. Only the things that had been near enough to the surface that Aramis had to purge them from his stomach to find strength again.

Their time in the little alcove together had been the only safe place left for him at one point. The streets were dangerous as a person without a 'true' family. Even with a makeshift one, it was dangerous. Having brothers – of any sort – in a military regiment was a protective measure to take but d'Art was no stranger to the dangers of weaponry held in the wrong hands. Learning to handle weapons with his brothers' advisements was something he had missed while he'd been gone from Paris.

Aramis had dragged him away from the group – and his thoughts – as soon as they'd arrived at the garrison, calling for Athos and Porthos to speak with Tréville while he tended to d'Art's burn.

D'Art didn't pay much attention to the exchange, his mind still settled on what had happened between him and Athos lately. Between the revelation of _who_ d'Art reminded Athos of and the recent finding that Athos had a wife who was supposed to be dead, d'Art had to wonder about just what he'd managed to miss. While it had been years since he'd seen Athos in person, he hadn't forgotten what the man had looked like. A few things had changed, like that cut on Athos' lip and Athos' lost smile, but many things had remained the same. He was still loyal to a fault for those he loved and was as unwilling to open up about his life as ever.

But it stung that d'Art wasn't remembered as anything past what he looked like when he was a child. For d'Art, it was like his entire existence had disappeared to Athos. He'd put it to words with Charlotte and Radha, thinking if he got it off his chest in that safe haven, things would get easier. They hadn't though. In fact, after the fire and learning about Athos' wife, d'Art had found himself holding a secret he wanted no part in because he knew what had happened five years ago.

He'd caught up with Porthos and Aramis as well, after all.

Athos had returned to the regiment changed, according to Porthos. There was an edge to his very being, according to Aramis. They had known Athos while he'd been in the Regiment while d'Art had been learning to protect himself and others. They would have known if a change had occurred in Athos when he'd returned to their sides.

Yet, they only knew of a woman who died. That was all Athos had shared with them. He hadn't spoken of a boy in Gascony disappearing from a farm that was now nothing but ash and debris. Aramis knew there was someone special in Gascony but also knew Athos hadn't spoken of Gascony since his return. Porthos remembered hearsay on it when he'd joined up but he, like Aramis, had no name. Tréville was in the same boat as Aramis and Porthos.

D'Art hissed as Aramis laid some rather foul smelling salve onto the healing burn on d'Art's upper chest. It wasn't the sting of the salve that caused the reaction though. It was something that d'Art hadn't realized was gnawing at him in silence until just then.

"Sorry d'Art," Aramis said with a soft smile that hinted at bashfulness that the Spaniard only _just_ pulled off. "I tried to warn you it'd sting."

Aramis wiped a thumb over d'Art's wet cheek, the hand cupping the young man's face. D'Art registered the soft brush of callouses on his face, the concerned expression on Aramis' face, but he couldn't register when he'd started crying.

"d'Art?" Aramis asked when his silence stretched a little too long. "What is it? What hurts?"

"It stung," he mumbled.

"Right," Aramis said, his expression giving away his lack of belief in the statement. "Sorry."

"There," Aramis said with a smile. "You're patched up." He pulled d'Art's chain and trinket up from the bench where they'd placed it to let Aramis have a clean shot at the injury. "And that pretty thing is back where it belongs."

Aramis held the trinket in his palm for a moment, eyes fixed on the sigil on the casing. D'Art waited as he stared at the sigil, a hand swiping the tears edging around his eyes.

"I've seen this sigil," Aramis murmured as he tucked the trinket under d'Art's shirt.

"It's Athos' family crest," d'Art murmured. Aramis stared at him.

"How'd you get this?" d'Art smiled at his friend.

"From Athos."

"W-when?!" Aramis stammered.

"I was three," d'Art admitted.

"…Athos hasn't recognized you," Aramis murmured as he began to piece the last few months together. D'Art shook his head. Aramis sighed, a hand coming through is dark hair.

"Alright then," he sighed as he wrapped d'Art up in his arms. "I'm sorry."

The boy nodded against Aramis' chest, his movements causing the leathers to squeak. He wished so badly to tell Aramis about what Athos was hiding but his promise was holding him back. He wanted to say so much of what happened while he'd been gone, where the scar on his neck from, to show the sigil on his trinket.

But he didn't. All he could do was weep at the knowledge that Athos did not remember him the way he remembered Athos while he was alone.

* * *

Athos had decided to treat Porthos to a drink that night. It was his way of apologizing about how he'd handled the situation with Bonnaire. He hadn't handled Porthos' injury well thanks to his inability to face his fear of his own home. He also wanted a bit of time alone with someone who knew about d'Art's history. Athos couldn't get himself to go up to d'Art personally after being under that intense stare. While Porthos drank, Athos began asking him about d'Art's history.

"Why so interested?" Porthos asked around his mug.

"He's nearly been killed because he's helped us," Athos stated. "And there was that incident with Therron only a few weeks ago. It's only right of me to ask about him isn't it?"

"Well, if you're going to worry over this like that," Porthos chuckled. "He's got a history much like mine. It's just…cleaner."

"How so?"

"I'm not going to incriminate myself to a friend," Porthos laughed before he took a long swig from his mug. "Like most kids, d'Art started up on keeping his ears to the ground and picking up any and all information he can to survive."

"He's obviously stayed with it," Athos murmured as he sipped at his wine.

"He's one of the best I've seen," Porthos chuckled. "The kids go in groups. Safety concerns and all that."

"Radha and Charlotte?"

"Yes. Radha's rather good at getting evidence while Charlotte can distract," Porthos explained. "Though…well, you've seen those girls."

"They're both distracting," Athos admitted.

"d'Art can double as the brawn when it's needed but that's a rare thing," Porthos said, his hand waving about as he tried to assure Athos that d'Art was rarely in danger. Athos was beginning to wonder how transparent his affections were getting to be. He wasn't making himself a difficult target on his liking of young d'Art apparently. The boy was impressive, though a bit raw about the edges.

"d'Art's got a good head on his shoulders, as you've seen, and he's good at keeping an eye out for those he cares for," Porthos stated. "Well, I'm sure you've seen that yourself, considering the soot you two had your clothes."

Athos choked on his wine at the statement. He'd missed the possible evidence he and d'Art had brought along from his burned down manor. Yet, here was Porthos noticing it and laughing it off because he knew Athos had probably been drunk. He didn't ask about where the soot had come from though there was a glint in Porthos' eyes as the mention of soot that Athos had a feeling was a remembrance of the burn on d'Art's skin.

"Look," Porthos whispered. "I can't tell you everything you want to know but what I can, I will."

"Has he lived his entire life in Paris?" Athos asked.

"No," Porthos said with a shake of his head. "I've known him since he was six."

Athos raised a brow in interest. "Do you know where he's from before?"

"Not a clue."

"So…he could be from Gascony for all you know?"

"For all I know, he's from the Colonies," Porthos said. "Though, really Athos, why are you so interested?"

"Something d'Art said…Never mind. It's nothing."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	22. The Good Soldier: Part 1

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**Done with finals so here's an early, yet small, chapter. Started re-watching _The Homecoming_ but summer's going to be keeping me busy with a summer class and random things. No promises made.**

* * *

The little tavern was buzzing with noise despite the early hour, and d'Art had his head ducked and his shoulders raised to his ears. Crowds weren't his favorite things while outside the Court. At least in the Court, he knew who he was rubbing elbows with. Outside, he could only guess what some people did in their spare time. Therron had been a clear example. Bonnaire was another.

Radha and Charlotte were waiting for him at their little table, food and drink gathered before them. Charlotte was rolling her food around with her fork while Radha just dug into the food before her with a wild abandon. They'd been doing well lately if the spread was anything to go by. His time helping Tréville had probably been a large contribution to their meals as of late though.

He hadn't been able to speak with them directly due to his helping Constance out around the place since some woman had scared her. The two of them had kept the incident from her husband but there had been an uneasy dance they'd fallen into to avoid the subject.

"I see that you two have had quite a haul," d'Art stated as he sank into a seat next to Radha.

"Oh we're being well paid for our information," Radha admitted around the meat in her mouth. "The thing is, I wasn't expecting such a haul."

"What'd you two do?"

"Oh, just ensured a shipment of grain went through," Charlotte murmured. "There weren't any casualties it's just…"

"Crowds," d'Art sighed. "I guess the lot of us are all cursed to dislike them."

"I like them just fine," Radha muttered as she swiped a hand at her mouth. "When I need to have a crowd to disappear in, that is."

"They have their uses," d'Art admitted as he dug into his own meal.

"How's that Landlady of yours? Still scared of the shadows?" Radha asked.

"No," d'Art said. "She's put it behind her. Plus, Tréville is keeping me rather busy as a new recruit along with having me run rumors down for him."

"How's that going? Please tell me he's paying you for your services," Radha muttered.

"He pays well enough," d'Art promised. "Besides, it gives me an excuse to talk to you two on occasion."

The girls snickered at him around their food. It wasn't a secret between the lot of them that d'Art was running himself ragged between helping Constance, helping the three Inseparable Musketeers he'd befriended, and Tréville's little errands. The Musketeer captain had a tendency to ask d'Art to ensure certain information was correct after it had come in.

Also, Radha had it on her own good authority that something had happened while the four of them had dealt with a man called Bonnaire. From what she'd heard, Bonnaire wasn't likely to be heard from again and that a certain Count had returned to his home only to have it burn down a day later. She wondered about the accuracy of the last bit until she'd spotted the healing burn on d'Art's chest that was currently a pink scar against his olive skin. She'd decided to let it be; trusting he'd tell her when he was ready.

"What's new, then?" Charlotte asked.

"There's going to be a visit from the Duke of Savoy soon," d'Art said. "I'll be a bit…busy with the festivities."

"That would explain the crowds," Charlotte murmured.

"Savoy….Savoy….I feel like there's something about that place that's important that I'm missing," Radha mumbled around the bread she'd shoved into her mouth.

"I feel the same Radha," d'Art whispered as he gulped down some ale. "I feel the same."

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	23. The Good Soldier: Part 2

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**Still re-watching _The Homecoming_ but summer's going to be keeping me busy with a summer class and random things. No promises made.**

* * *

The heat was unbearable. The waiting wasn't helping matters either. Anyone who knew Porthos, knew he hated being bored. Aramis knew, from experience, that Porthos' mutterings on how he loved parades and how the large man was thinking of fainting just for something to do were just something to keep himself from being bored. He didn't really appreciate Athos' forgetfulness; asking what was wrong. Porthos had whispered that he was thinking of Savoy and Aramis kept to himself as d'Art asked about it.

He couldn't blame d'Art for the question. Out of all the things he'd shared with the boy, he hadn't shared that particular tale. Not in detail. He'd explained he'd lost friends and left it hanging in the air like dirty laundry. D'Art had never pressed him for information though and so the facts were left drifting about Aramis' head like the flies buzzing about them in the heat.

Since he'd heard that the Duke of Savoy was coming to France – treaty or no – he'd been uneasy with his knowledge of the affairs of state concerning this particular issue. Savoy wasn't a large envoy of land. Well, not by the standards of a country, at least. It was a strategic ally to have though what with the way Spain seemed to hover about on the edge of attack. Savoy wanted its independence and France was willing to give Savoy that. This meeting was important. Aramis knew this but it still hurt him deeply when he heard the very name 'Savoy'. It came with too many memories and few of them were good.

His father had wanted him to join the ranks of the church but he'd ended up in France with a sword and pistol on his hips. He didn't miss his father's hovering over him to join the priesthood though the irony of how much he appreciated a rosary around his throat wasn't lost on him. He said his prayers at night still, asking for God to watch over him as he slept, asking for peace to be blessed upon his weary mind, and asking for the protection of his friends.

The clatter of an approaching carriage caught his attentions despite his whirling thoughts. Then again, whenever he found himself thinking of blood, crows, and Marsac's leaving, he found his thoughts tended to prefer other things to worry over. Duke Victor of Savoy complained about the roads while the King's sister greeted him with a kiss to the hand and kind words. The Duke seemed unwilling to give any sort of kindness to anyone though, calling Richelieu an unhealthy looking corpse.

Things began to liven up a bit when a shot rang out, one of the stewards falling to his death. In an instant, d'Art was pointing to where the shot had come from and Aramis was racing after him into the gardens, Athos close behind. While Aramis had known d'Art to be capable of launching over walls taller than the bushes, he wasn't entirely surprised when the boy's early leap made him trip slightly. He would have applauded the boy for rolling out of the tumble with the grace of cat stalking prey had he not been rather preoccupied himself.

It didn't take long for them to split up, Porthos darting into the gardens as d'Art disappeared down one path and Athos another. Aramis found himself standing before a rope that dangled from a roof, shattered tiles on the ground, crunching under his boots. He stepped past the pillars, his hand falling to his sword as he looked down the long hall before him. His heart leapt into his chest as a dagger was pressed to his throat and his body was pulled against another.

"Hello old friend," a graveled voice said. "Don't make me kill you."

He knew that voice. He knew this touch. It baffled him though, his mind reeling that he was dreaming it all.

"Marsac," he said, a growl in his own voice.

The man lowered the scarf hiding his face, proving the guess correct. Aramis, still in a bit of denial, slammed his fist into the man's face before twirling him around and kicking him in the stomach, tossing him to the floor once he was done. He pointed the man's knife accusingly at him as he stood over the prone body.

"First a deserter and now an assassin?"

"You don't understand," Marsac said, his hands up in supplication. "It was the Duke of Savoy that led the attack and killed our friends that day."

Aramis backed away, the news like a punch to the gut as he tossed away the dagger. He turned, trying to make up his mind about what he should do. His body acted logically, yanking his pistol free to point it at his friend.

"Put your weapon on the ground," he growled, surprised by the hostility in his voice.

"We were friends, Aramis," Marsac pleaded.

"_Now_," Aramis snarled.

He watched as Marsac unsheathed his sword, tossing it aside before he leaned back again to look up at Aramis. The Spaniard tried to ignore the twist in his belly as he recognized the spiraling pommel that graced the sword. It was the Musketeer sword Marsac had gotten in his training. Aramis' heart twisted as he kicked the sword away, his eyes searching for one of his new friends.

"Aramis, please, listen to me," Marsac was saying.

In an instant, Aramis was hauling the man to his feet and slamming him against a pillar. Athos and Porthos passed through the gardens, not seeing Aramis as they went. Marsac thanked him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He punched the man in return, his anger over the situation Marsac had put him in boiling over again. He threw Marsac to the ground again.

"That's for leaving me alone in the forest, with twenty dead Musketeers," he snarled, not admitting that he was far more annoyed at the current position he was in.

Hiding from his friends because Marsac had returned wasn't something he'd expected to be doing. He didn't appreciate it either. He didn't like hiding things from Porthos and Athos and he especially hated hiding things from d'Art. The young man had a talent for finding things out, especially when people didn't want him to, but Aramis knew d'Art expected more from friends. Aramis also knew the consequences of _not_ living up to those high expectations. He wasn't sure what Athos had done – though he'd known the man to say things he didn't mean while too drunk – but d'Art had seemed to be avoiding the man until a few days ago – possibly because of whatever it was that had happened while Aramis had been away with Bonnaire and Porthos. Aramis did not wish to have the boy give him a cold shoulder any more than he wished to hand Marsac over for high treason.

"Have you never asked yourself what really happened that night?" Marsac asked after the two of them had struggled to their feet again, anger dissipating into something else. "All these years, we thought it was the Spanish that butchered our friends. It was the Duke."

Aramis was rubbing his hand through is hair as he paced, listening to Marsac as he gripped his hat in his other hand. He pushed Marsac against the pillar again, asking how he could be sure of the treasonous words spouting from his mouth. He put it more tactfully but he knew what he was really asking.

"They were all masked," Aramis pointed out.

"I've made it my life's work to learn the truth Aramis," Marsac said.

Aramis turned away from him, the click of a pistol's hammer being pulled back alerting him that they weren't alone. D'Art stood before them, his pistol aimed for Marsac as he gave Aramis a questioning look. Aramis found his eyes wandering to the scarf on the boy's neck, still flattered the boy still wore it. Yet, even as proud as Aramis was of the boy's form, the question d'Art gave him cut at him.

"Care to tell me what's going on?" d'Art asked, his brown eyes fixed on Marsac as he stepped towards Aramis' side.

"Marsac's an old friend," Aramis explained, a hand up as he signaled Marsac to not move. He stepped toward d'Art as he spoke, trying to keep his voice calm.

"An old friend," d'Art muttered as he continued to glare that the scene he'd walked in on. "One that just tried to kill the Duke of Savoy."

"Hear him out? He was one of our best soldiers once."

A look of utter amazement crossed d'Art's face at the statement. Aramis frowned.

"I said 'once' didn't I?" Aramis asked as he stepped back to Marsac.

"We were _brothers_ once," he pleaded. "For the sake of our old friendship, let me prove what I know."

Aramis looked over his shoulder to d'Art before striding off to the side. The young information thief followed him with an uneasy glance at Marsac. Once they were aside, Aramis asked the young man to not say anything about what he'd walked in on.

"Have you gone _mad_?" d'Art asked him.

"Probably," he sighed. "I owe him my life, d'Art, so please."

The young man stared at him, brow furrowed with suspicions that Aramis couldn't have talked him into shaking off if he tried. D'Art sent a look towards Marsac before sighing and holding up a finger to Aramis' face.

"If this gets me hanged," he threatened, "I'm going to take it _very_ personally."

Aramis placed a hand over his heart, patting d'Art on the shoulder as he began to consider where he could hide his friend.

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


	24. The Good Soldier: Part 3

**I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's _The Musketeers_. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.**

**I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.**

**Still re-watching _The Homecoming_.**

* * *

It hadn't taken Aramis and d'Art very long to smuggle Marsac to Constance's home and d'Art was beginning to wish the poor woman had never met him. Aramis' lie that Marsac was a cabinet maker still didn't sit well with d'Art but it was probably better to not tell Constance she was hiding a man who'd deserted his regiment and just that morning had taken a shot at a Duke.

He tried to not let his reasoning be clouded by Constance giving Marsac the room he was renting from her be yet _another_ reason he disliked the man. Marsac's 'admiring from a distance' hadn't been welcomed either. D'Art had warned the man off but he doubted someone who'd been living on the run would listen to him. Not without seeing his neck first.

He'd left Aramis to tying Marsac's wrists as the two spoke to each other in the privacy of his room. Being what he was though, left him tempted to listen in. Since Aramis was a friend, he decided it best to ask outright rather than eavesdrop.

"What happened in Savoy?" he asked as they exited the house.

"A training exercise near the French border," Aramis explained after a moment of hesitancy. "We had not reason to be on our guard though so we weren't. We were attacked in the night, most of our men killed as they slept."

"You and Marsac fought together that night then?"

"Yes…we knew we'd die but we did so anyway, side by side."

"How did you survive?"

"I was wounded and Marsac dragged me to safety before he too hid in the trees and watched the massacre. The next morning, I woke to find him sitting amongst the bodies weeping and claiming he'd wished he'd died with our friends."

D'Art watched the Spaniard as Aramis dribbled water onto the back of his neck from the well's bucket. He waited as the man sorted his next words out.

"He tore off his uniform and rode away," Aramis continued. "I should have stopped him; I tried to stop him but…he left. I let him ruin his life after saving mine and I can't tell him that, to my eyes, he's not the coward he thinks he is."

The young man remained quiet, lost in thought. The attack had happened twenty years ago when he'd been ten. Now that he had a clearer picture of what had been happening when he'd found Aramis vomiting in an alley all those years ago, he couldn't blame the man for trying to protect a friend. He couldn't agree that Marsac was deserving of the kindness that Aramis was willing to give the man.

His reservations only got worse as Tréville bellowed at them all for losing the assassin. He didn't like lying to the Captain of the Musketeers about not seeing Marsac, claiming he'd slipped. It wasn't a total lie considering he hadn't cleared the bushes as well as he could have but he _had_ seen Marsac despite the rather pathetic leap.

And Athos' unsubtle glance was enough to twist his stomach again. He hadn't liked avoiding Athos since the Bonnaire incident but he'd had to. He knew he'd called the elder man by his first name and Athos wasn't likely to have forgotten it – even if the man hadn't brought it up. He was avoiding the fallout was all he was doing; he knew this. Aramis' finally seeing the sigil on the trinket and understanding what was actually happening had taken some weight off his chest but d'Art was still terrified of what Athos would say when things were put together.

He could take Tréville's jab at him being 'little' and not getting a nasty bruise from the 'wet grass' he'd claimed to slip on but a stare from Athos…That he couldn't endure.

He and Aramis couldn't make it out of the garrison before Porthos and Athos called them out on hiding something. Aramis tried to pass it off but Athos glanced at d'Art. Porthos' gazed at both d'Art and Aramis with a look that spoke volumes. He, like Athos, knew they were hiding something and while he wasn't pleased about it, he wasn't going to judge until he knew the whole story.

"What is it?" Athos asked as Aramis placed his hat back on his head.

"If you don't tell them, I will," d'Art stated.

"Tell us what?" Porthos asked.

The next thing d'Art knew, he was back at Constance's being yelled at by the lady of the house herself about what they'd done. Athos was sitting in a chair with his arms crossed and blue eyes blazing while Aramis leaned against a cabinet behind Marsac's seated form. Porthos was standing before the hearth while d'Art stood next to Constance at the opposite end of the table from Athos. She hissed her anger at him and Aramis came to his defense though it did no good.

He was to pack his things while Marsac got to stay.

"Well that hardly seems fair," d'Art muttered as she stormed out the door.

"She'll forgive you," Aramis assured him. "Just give her time."

D'Art glared at him knowing there was a promise of pain in his eyes when Aramis ducked his head. Athos went on to ask if they'd lost their minds only to end with himself and Marsac knocking over chairs when their egos were trodden on. Aramis, being ever the diplomat, calmed them and asked for Athos to hear Marsac out.

Marsac dragged them to a building where he'd tied up a man he'd found in a bar, bragging about killing Musketeers. D'Art instantly disliked the man's tactics as his introduction to the man was followed with a barrage of punches and yelling.

"Easy," he sang as he tried to keep a relaxed posture. "He can't talk if he's out cold."

The man being held spoke of the Duke of Savoy hearing that he was to be attacked by France and had sent men out on a Good Friday to slaughter the Musketeers camped on the border. The man was stupid enough to let smugness slink into his voice as he recalled the men he'd helped kill had been asleep when he'd crept into the tents.

Marsac was an explosive bastard when it came to anything belittling the men he'd lost too, bellowing the twenty dead had been his friends and throwing another punch. The man continued on about a chancellor, Cluzet, telling of a man who'd given away the camp's location. He'd overheard the name before he'd left to carry out his orders.

"What name did you hear?" Aramis asked, his voice strangely calm despite the revelation. They'd been more than ambushed; they'd been betrayed. "Who betrayed the Musketeers?"

"Tréville?" the man whimpered, unsure of this new questioner. "A Captain Tréville."

"Makes sense," Marsac muttered. "Every man has his price."

"You take that _back_!" Porthos snarled before he launched at Marsac. Athos got between them, pushing Porthos back before signaling for them to follow him to the side.

"The Captain? _Really_?" d'Art asked, sarcasm dripping into his voice as he continued. "He's the traitor who ordered the murder of his own men? Impossible."

"He's lying," Porthos agreed though there was panic in his eyes. He was looking to d'Art for assurance, knowing that if anyone had heard anything such as that, it would have been him. D'Art hadn't heard anything of the sort though, not in the twenty years since the massacre.

"How else would the Duke have found so easily?" Aramis asked. "Someone had to tell him. Someone who knew the orders we'd been given. It was Tréville, who issued them."

Aramis continued to argue that it was possible but d'Art pointed out that Tréville's name was rather well known around France so it was possible the man could have heard it anywhere. Porthos backed hi claim by saying the man would say anything to save his own skin. Athos agreed with them, saying there had to be another explanation. They fell into a silence that was broken by the gagging of the captive. Once Athos had ripped the deserter from the possible murderer, d'Art turned to the man to check him over. He tossed up his hands in frustration and annoyance as he turned back to his friends.

"He's dead."

Athos glared down at Marsac's prone form.

"This advisor," d'Art murmured. "Cluzet…that's it right?" Porthos nodded in a jerking motion. "Anyone think he's been seen since this…incident?"

"I'd doubt it," Porthos muttered.

"What are you thinking?" Athos asked.

"I'm going to find him."

* * *

Radha had spotted her old friend early that afternoon when he and the Inseparables were walking through town, a new face amongst them. She could hear him saying something about charges being ridiculous as she slipped through the crowded market place in pursuit of the young man. While she had a rumor for him – one he may not like but would likely prefer to know – she was a bit interested in the conversation going on between the five men.

There was talk of butchered bodies, no need for reminders, and the need for proof before revenge or justice could come about. Porthos, bless the man, pointed out that they were talking about a captain while Aramis claimed that was the reason they owed it to this captain to clear his name.

"So, really, we'd be doing him a favor," d'Art pointed out. "I hope he sees it that way."

"This isn't even your business," the new man said as he jabbed a finger in d'Art's general direction as he stared at Aramis. "You're not even a Musketeer."

"Apparently, neither are you," d'Art chuckled.

Radha watched in amazement at the newcomer tried to launch himself at d'Art, who stepped toward the attack as Porthos blacked it.

"Don't go there," Porthos snarled before he pushed the man away. "Not if you enjoy breathing."

Aramis claimed he needed the truth and Athos stated his loyalty in Tréville before also stating he wouldn't get in Aramis' way. He did order that the man, Marsac, stayed under house arrest. Aramis spoke of wounding a leader across his back and that would be their proof. D'Art and Porthos led Marsac away as Athos and Aramis talked of paths leading down dark ways. Radha followed d'Art, not liking the man he was accompanying.

"Radha," d'Art smiled when she hopped from behind a stall to fall in step at his side. He tossed an arm around her shoulders and pressed his lips to her temple like a brother. "What news?"

"The Duke had an unexpected friend," she whispered before glaring at Marsac who was leering at her. "Am I to assume this is said friend?"

"Possibly," d'Art sighed. "Before you ask, yes, we've lost our minds."

"Shame," she murmured. "Such a waste of a pretty head. Anything you wish me to attend to besides the children?"

"Children?" Marsac hissed with a laugh. "Already got a family, boy?"

"Shut up you," Porthos snarled.

"They're our siblings," Radha hissed. "And none of your bloody business either." She turned back to d'Art, ignoring the glare he was sending Marsac. "Anything I can do?"

"Cluzet," d'Art stated. "Find anything you can on him."

"Happy to," she said with a smile as Athos stepped on her right side. "Anything I should know?"

"I would prefer him willing to speak about a massacre at the border of France and Savoy."

"This have to do with the men killed there twenty years ago?" she asked. D'Art nodded and she sighed as she crossed herself with a soft prayer leaving her lips. "Shame that. So…if you lot will excuse me, I've got a job to do."

She ducked away past Athos once d'Art lifted his arm from her shoulders. She spun on her toes and waved goodbye to d'Art before disappearing down an alleyway. She didn't particularly like the way Marsac continued looking at her as she went but she wasn't sure she wanted to be anywhere near the fallout when d'Art realized what he had on his hands.

She could spot a damaged soul a mile off since she'd learned of d'Art's learning to shoot from the Spaniard of the Inseparables. Years had gone by and she had avoided bringing up the man's hidden scars to avoid hurting d'Art. Yet, here she was, wondering is this Marsac had snapped or not as well as worrying over when Aramis would do the same.

* * *

D'Art was shoving clothes into a satchel when Constance walked back to the small room. She was astonished to find him packing. It made no sense to her. It had been fairly clear to her since she'd met him that he had no place to stay – unless of course the redhead she'd seen waving at him in the market was willing to give him a bed – so why he was packing was beyond her.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"You told me to pack my things," he replied over her shoulder. She blushed at the memory of her heated words. She hadn't meant them.

"I killed a man a man for you, yet, you still don't trust me," she muttered, admitting why she'd said the words. She was tired of being out of the loop when it came to the four men she'd found herself thinking of as her brothers.

"I was trying to protect you," he said.

"I don't want that from you. I want to be treated as an equal," she complained, knowing her request was possibly falling on deaf, male ears.

"I made a promise to Aramis," he muttered.

"Him over me then?"

"It's not that simple," he muttered. "It's a question of loyalty." They shared a look of disappointed unease with each other before he turned back to his things. "I keep my promises, Constance. If you're willing to let me try again, I swear to never lie to you again."

She frowned. "We do need the money," she mumbled though that wasn't the sole reason she wanted him present. "Do it again and you'll be out on your ear."

He nodded at her, his eyes on the floor in accepted shame at what he'd done, acknowledging her for being right in his typical silence. She smiled and returned to her chores, ignoring the flush on her cheeks as best as she could.

* * *

**Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.**


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